


Lighting Fires

by Librarianmum



Series: Lighting Fires [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2015-03-20
Packaged: 2018-03-18 19:45:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 65,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3581640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Librarianmum/pseuds/Librarianmum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has had to disappear following The Fall, but what if his best friend had always known that the detective had survived? Now John Watson faces his greatest challenge - but he won't let Sherlock down...ever. Now complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written some time ago, shortly after series 2, so it's not compliant with the events of series 3. I feel a bit guilty that, for example, Sherlock's mum is described as cold, since that's how I imagined her before we saw series 3, but I decided not to change anything.
> 
> This was inspired by the song Fires by Ronan Keating – in my vision, John knows that Sherlock is still alive and does his quiet and loyal best to light the way for his friend to come home. You can read it as strong friendship, possibly pre-slash, if you like.
> 
> I've quoted some of John's and Sherlock's lines from the final episode, taken from Ariane Devere's transcript – thanks Ariane!
> 
> Disclaimer : not mine, no money.

John glances over his shoulder to see Mrs Hudson walking away across the cemetery, still sniffling into her hanky. He waits until he's sure that their housekeeper is out of earshot before turning back to the gravestone in front of him.

He takes a moment to appreciate the peace of the location. The last couple of weeks have been…difficult. Scrap that, bloody awful. Having to give his statement to the police, to the coroner…worst of all, to Mycroft Holmes, stiff and silent, his face chalk-white.

And all the time, seeing that body fall, over and over in his mind. The unseeing eyes staring upwards from a blood-streaked face. The cold, motionless hand that slipped from his frantic grasp. Waking gasping and wild-eyed from nightmares where he almost made it, almost stopped him from jumping...

And then, a week ago, the burial. No official funeral. He had stood firm on that. Mycroft could think what the hell he liked, but Sherlock would have hated it; he would have detested the fakery of religious expression, the meaningless hymns, the formality. John wasn't having it; he didn't care what traditions the Holmes' maintained. As far as he was concerned, it was the least he could do for his friend. Somewhat surprisingly, Mycroft didn't push the issue; he seemed happy to leave most of the arrangements to John.

The occasion was sparsely attended, as he might have expected. The only family members were Mycroft and his mother, a remote, rather cold woman – the type of mother that he could easily imagine producing two such emotionally-repressed brothers. John stood separately with Mrs Hudson. The two of them were the closest that Sherlock had probably had to 'family', but they couldn't bring themselves to join the Holmes' family by the graveside.

A strangely quiet, dry-eyed Molly attended, darting guilty looks at John without quite meeting his eyes. A few more were there in the background – some he recognised as grateful clients; some he didn't but suspected might be fans of his blog – obsessed with Sherlock, probably. He tried to avoid contact with them. A couple of kids lurked behind a nearby gravestone; he recognised them as members of Sherlock's homeless network and appreciated the gesture.

A guilt-ridden Lestrade was the sole representative of New Scotland Yard – the organisation that owed Sherlock so much. He didn't expect Sally Donovan or Anderson to feel any genuine sorrow over Sherlock's death or to show any respect by turning up (indeed, it was perhaps just as well they hadn't), but even Dimmock didn't attend – no doubt cowed by the Chief Commissioner's current backlash against their unofficial consultant detective. More than anything, that stiffened John's resolve – the insult to his friend prickled his neck, made him stand with military stiffness throughout.

And now – here – finally, silence.

_Sherlock would hate it_ , he realises, ruefully. All the time he'd been in the detective's presence, he could count the moments of genuine peace and tranquillity on the fingers of one hand. The detective was always on the move, seemingly unable to keep that long, uncoordinated body still. He'd pace about the living room with maniacal energy, dressing gown swishing as his mind raced with facts and figures. Or he'd be out, running down the stairs, arm out for the inevitable taxi that seemed to pass 221B Baker Street at the very moment it was needed. Or he'd be darting around the scene of a crime, gesturing as he made his astonishing deductions. Or running through the streets of London after some criminal or other, dodging pedestrians and cars and signposts with practised ease, coat flying, John trying to keep up as always.

Even in quieter moments in their flat, he'd be playing his violin or hovering over an experiment on the kitchen table or making rude comments about John's viewing choices, perched in his chair with knees pulled up, like a bird about to take flight.

Oh, yes, he'd hate this… this _absence_.

John looks at the grave, opens his mouth… and then hesitates. Now it comes to it, he has no idea what to say. He clears his throat and starts speaking, tentatively at first.

"You ... you told me once that you weren't a hero. Umm ... there were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this: you were the best man, and the most human ... human being that I've ever known and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so ... There."

Well, probably the least inspiring eulogy ever delivered. Thank Christ he hadn't had to speak at a funeral.

He breathes out shakily and steps up to the gravestone. It's cold under his touch, but it's all he has left. Can Sherlock feel his touch, buried deep and cold under the ground? Can he feel John tapping the stone, as he might once have tapped Sherlock's shoulder?

Sherlock wasn't a tactile individual. He appeared to lack awareness of personal boundaries and frequently stood far too close to John – at first, the former soldier, ever alert, had had to steel himself not to step away. Later, when he knew the man better, he recognised that this was just Sherlock's way; that the detective meant nothing personal by it - he merely didn't understand (or care) that he might make others uncomfortable. And Sherlock thought nothing of asking John to retrieve his phone from his trousers pocket whilst mid-experiment; at first, John had taken this as a form of flirtation, but it became apparent that Sherlock had no knowledge of, or interest in, the concept of groping as a form of sexual intent.

But, for all that, Sherlock didn't care to be touched except when strictly necessary. Poor Molly had had her hand shrugged off in impatience on more than one occasion, and Lestrade had clearly learned the hard way not to attempt to physically restrain the detective – that was clear from the way he took care to keep well away from Sherlock at crime scenes. John restricted himself to an occasional pat on the shoulder – a pat that could mean any number of things: _are you OK?_... _leave the bereaved husband alone, Sherlock_ … _yes, I know Anderson's a complete moron…_ _I believe you_ … _I support you_ … or even merely _how about a nice cuppa?_ And, strangely, Sherlock seemed not to mind it from John.

"I was so alone, and I owe you so much," he blurts out, surprising himself with the sudden self-evident truth of this statement. Why hadn't he realised that before?

Oh, he'd had _fun_ with Sherlock these last months – he'd enjoyed the midnight pursuits, the cruel verbal sparring between Sherlock and his brother that had secretly amused him, the amazement that he always felt at the depth of information Sherlock could elicit from a dead body. The danger, the craziness… the sheer, life-affirming _Sherlockness_ of his life. He missed that uncertainty – the sense of waking up each morning and genuinely not knowing how the day would end.

But beyond that, he _did_ owe Sherlock more than the man would ever know. Without Sherlock, he'd have still been that sad, lonely shell of a man that had returned from Afghanistan, leaning heavily on a stick, moving between a succession of cheap grotty hotels. No home; no family to talk of, apart from a sister who was usually more concerned about where her next drink was coming from than about her younger brother.

221B Baker Street – his home? _Sherlock_ \- his family? And yet, that's what they had become - ironic that he hadn't seen that until it was too late.

He feels the tears coming and takes a shaky breath. _No_. _Not here_. He can fall apart in privacy, but not here, in this public place. It's not his way, never has been - and anyway, Sherlock would scorn it. Too much emotion. Now, more than ever, he can't let his friend down.

"OK." He turns away, takes two steps, stops and turns back, knowing suddenly what he just _has_ to say.

"No, please, there's just one more thing, mate, one more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't ... be ... _dead_."

Now he's said it, finally said the words out loud, he can't stop – he's begging, desperately. "Would you do ...? Just for me, just stop it. _Stop this_."

He gestures hopelessly at the gravestone, and then, as his voice gives out, the tears do finally come and he bends his head, feeling the grief sweeping over him once more.

It catches him every now and then, this pain - this searing agony. An image of that falling body, those dead eyes, blurs his vision, and it always seems that only tears can wash the horror away and allow him to see clearly again. He rubs furiously at his face and forces his heavy shoulders back into a military stance.

_I can do this for you, Sherlock. I have to do this – for you. What else can I offer?_

He comes to attention in front of his best friend. It's a silent salute to the fallen – all he can offer now it's too late. And then, with a final acknowledging nod, he turns on his heel and strides away. He feels the familiar ache in his thigh as he seeks to walk firmly without the limp that has returned to plague him once more.

He can't see Mrs Hudson. As he nears the church, he turns his head and looks back again, searching for his landlady, but seeing only damp ground and solitary gravestones, with a smattering of tall trees behind, marking the boundaries of the cemetery. Not a single person in sight, just a brief impression of a tall, dark figure moving quickly through the trees in the opposite direction. No sign of her. She may have returned to the taxi that is still waiting for them by the gate. He can't blame her; it's a damp, chilly day. Since Sherlock's death, the weather has matched his state of mind; days of grey dreariness, punctured by the occasional fierce rain storm.

He spares a thought for the homeless people he saw at the funeral – he must make an effort to track them down, make sure they're OK. That's something positive he can do. Sherlock was always giving them money for information; they'll miss that. Perhaps he could look through Sherlock's clothes – in amongst the designer suits and silk shirts, there might be something he could pass on. That coat for a start – it would keep someone warm –

He stops dead. The coat. Last seen covered in bright red blood. He hadn't given a thought to Sherlock's personal effects; no one had given them to him. The small part of his mind that still operated logically in the immediate aftermath had naturally assumed that Mycroft had taken them as Sherlock's official next-of-kin. Presumably the coat was among those effects, unless it had been incinerated at the hospital.

_So why, then, is his mind telling him that he has just seen it_?

He turns quickly, frantically, his eyes narrowing as he scans the scene once more. Nothing – just graves and trees. And then it comes to him - trees… that dark figure…

His breath catches and he takes a quick half-step towards the trees. And stops again and stares, his gaze suddenly blank and unseeing. He stands absolutely still for perhaps two minutes.

And then, Captain John Watson stiffens, assuming a military stance once more. He turns on his heel and marches briskly out of the graveyard, his face pale and set.

As he walks along, an eagle-eyed observer might just notice that his hands, stuffed into his jacket pockets, are clenched into fists. But, beyond that, he's just another anonymous mourner, who passes through the cemetery gates and out of sight into the bustling London crowds.

* * *

He hadn't meant to come back to Baker Street – had told Mrs Hudson that he couldn't face it. And yet, here he is, standing in the doorway to their flat.

Nothing has changed. It's as if their landlady has been too afraid to touch anything. Perhaps she thinks that if she takes that step, it will be a final admission that the boy she loved fiercely – the boy who would throw a thug out of a window for daring to hurt her – will definitely not be returning.

Papers and equipment are scattered haphazardly. An old, unwashed mug sits on the coffee table – he can smell the dregs. The skull, the violin, an abandoned experiment, all in their usual places. A book lies open on the floor in the corner, under the bookshelves, and he has a sudden memory of Sherlock's frantic search for the hidden camera recording their every move. And he remembers his words to Lestrade that night, pointing at the police detective's forehead:

" _You can't kill an idea, can you? Not once it's made a home…there."_

Amazingly, there's no sign that anyone has been in here since their arrest the night before The Fall. He can only assume that Lestrade has used whatever remains of his power at New Scotland Yard to prevent any searches being carried out – so far, anyway. Otherwise they'd have no doubt been all over the place, looking for evidence of fraud. John's jaw tightens as he imagines Anderson's fingers itching to take the place apart.

He walks heavily across the floor and sinks into his usual chair. It's possible that the police are too busy. He can just picture the frantic activity going on at the Yard right now – all those cases that Sherlock solved being taken apart in the search for evidence that the consulting detective was involved – was the perpetrator all along.

No doubt, Sherlock is a deep embarrassment to them. Perhaps they intend to bury him; perhaps they hope that once the tabloids get bored of the sensationalism, no one will remember that they once relied on the word of an apparent madman.

Part of him wonders vaguely whether Lestrade will survive the cull… then he dismisses it. Unimportant.

He shuts his eyes. If he doesn't look, doesn't see the dust motes floating in the air of this…mausoleum, he can imagine that Sherlock is still there. He can be sitting at ease, barefoot in his jeans and t-shirt, with a newspaper on his lap and a cup of tea in his hand - and any moment, _any moment now_ , Sherlock will emerge from his room, dressed in one of his designer suits, tapping impatiently at his mobile, moving towards the door, calling to John in that imperious voice, absolutely confident that the doctor will drop his cup and hurry after him.

As he always does, of course. Always _did_.

Any moment now.

He opens his eyes again. A brief ray of sunlight emerges from the clouds and casts its light across the dusty room.

The silence oppresses him, and he lets out a sigh, almost jumping as it echoes around the room. And finally speaks.

"Oh Sherlock, what have you done now?"

He sees the image in his mind. Empty cemetery, dripping trees and a dark, figure, moving quickly. The swish of that coat. He chuckles humourlessly.

"Bloody stupid idiot – brain the size of a planet, and you didn't think I'd notice that coat?"

He'd always noticed the coat. Sherlock's admiration of its sleek lines was obvious – he'd even worn it in rural Dartmoor. John remembered with fondness the way he'd pull the collar up to 'look cool'. It was something _normal_ in Sherlock – something that John would cling to when his friend was at his most exasperating and inhuman, because it reminded him that even Sherlock Holmes occasionally succumbed to the human weakness of male vanity.

He stands, restlessly, and moves to the window. The pane is dusty and he has to rub it with his fingers to see the small figures moving up and down the street below.

Somewhere out there is a man that everyone thinks is dead.

From the moment the image of that figure had come into his mind – an image that had made him freeze momentarily in the cemetery - his mind had been racing. He'd almost followed the man, but something – some remnant of survival instinct surviving from his military days – had stopped him dead. Something had made him swallow his reaction, set his face into something resembling grief and continue on his path out of the cemetery.

Even as his pulse beat so frantically he thought he might faint, he'd managed to continue moving through the crowds – numb and speechless, the taxi and Mrs Hudson forgotten. Somehow, his feet had walked him here, in the direction of Baker Street – as if his body was able to take over and direct him home when his mind was no longer capable of it.

"But how… _Jesus_ , Sherlock, how'd you do it?"

He visualises the scene again; he can do it dispassionately now that he knows it's just a trick –

He backs up, runs the previous scene through his mind. Looking up at the dark figure on the edge of the roof; a sense of rising panic at the words being choked down his phone. Sherlock's 'note'. Hang on - _what was it that Sherlock had said?_

" _It's a trick. Just a magic trick_."

And suddenly, it's perfectly clear. _He was trying to tell me - to warn me_.

Just before that comment, he'd said, " _I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you_ ". If he'd been talking about that, he'd have said " _It was a trick_ ", but he hadn't – he'd said " _It's a trick_."

Present tense, not past tense.

"He was trying to tell me." He says it out loud, to give it substance. "He was telling me that _this_ was the trick – this set up, the conversation, the 'note', The Fall – all of it."

So, he's alive – he _must_ be. _Sherlock is alive_. _He's alive_. _And I've seen him_. He repeats it in his mind, over and over again, trying to make it feel real. He releases his grip on the window sill, pushes himself away and turns around, striding across the floor, suddenly unable to keep still. An energy he hasn't felt for two weeks is rushing through his veins, spreading out, shaking him fully back to life.

Elation washes over him; he can't stop grinning like an idiot. Of course, when he catches up with the bastard, he'll make his feelings _perfectly_ clear, but right now he speaks to the walls and the empty room: "Fucking hell, Sherlock, thanks a lot, mate. You really had me going there…"

He stops, breaks off.

_And isn't that the point?_

Suddenly sober, he frowns at the Cluedo board, still stuck to the wall by a penknife. The real question he should be asking is not _how_ but _why_ Sherlock felt it necessary to fake his death.

He thinks over Sherlock's words again: " _The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly ... in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes_."

_Why_ did he say that to John? And why did he emphasise those specific people – Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson, and Molly? Why not Mycroft, for example – or Sally Donovan? Why was it so important that the four of them got that message?

What was significant about them – what bound the four of them to the aloof, arrogant and lonely consulting detective?

John would say friendship, but Sherlock would surely scorn him. What was it he'd said – " _Alone protects me_ "? And John had contradicted him; had said " _Friends protect people_ ". It was the last thing he'd said before leaving - and he'd spoken in anger. But then, he remembers something else – Sherlock standing in another graveyard, saying, " _I don't have friends…I've just got one_ ," his eyes focused on the doctor as he speaks, making his meaning clear.

He shakes his head, trying to clear it of unwanted emotions. What else? Well, they'd all been victims of their connection to Sherlock. Mrs Hudson had been targeted by thugs, lonely little Molly had been charmed by 'Jim from IT', and as for John, well he'd been beaten up on numerous occasions and threatened with death by shotbow, gun, bomb, even a mythical great hound. And Lestrade – well, he was suffering right now by his association.

_Victims… every one of us._ Victims of Sherlock Holmes…

No, not of Sherlock - of Jim Moriarty. As always, John has to repress a shiver as he hears that creepy high voice in his head: " _I will burn the heart out of you_." And Sherlock, only two weeks ago, in another lifetime: " _He wants to destroy me inch by inch_ ".

How do you destroy a man whose first love is 'the Work'? By taking it away from him, of course. And how do you do that? Bit by bit – inch by inch, just as Sherlock said. First his reputation, and then anyone who still believes in him. Anyone who loves -

He shies away from that sudden revelation. _Refocus, John_. His leg is starting to ache again, and he sits down, slowly.

Sherlock needed John to believe a lie, and he wanted him to pass that lie onto three other people in particular. He'd known that if John believed it, the others would also. _Why_? To make it easier for them when he faked his death? To protect them in some way?

John grips his hands together, lacing his fingers as he thinks. In medical-military style, he takes the facts apart and lays them out mentally.

Fact 1: Sherlock faked his death. Why? Presumably because he had to; because the alternative (whatever it might be) was worse.

Fact 2: John had to witness his death. That's why Sherlock had arranged that fake call about Mrs Hudson and had timed it precisely, so that John would return in time to see his fall without witnessing what had happened prior to it.

Fact 3: Sherlock had deliberately drawn John's attention to three people: Greg Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and Molly Hooper. These people were of significance – in some way, he was trying to give John the reason for his actions.

Fact 4: John had been a witness and – crucially – he had to _remain_ a witness to the detective's supposed death.

He can only speculate as to what led Sherlock to that rooftop. Since The Fall, there's been no word, or sign, of Moriarty - or the self-declared Rich Brook. Kitty Riley's expose has been carefully buried by more 'interesting' stories in the tabloids – he senses Mycroft's hand in that. Meanwhile, the man himself seems to have disappeared into thin air. No gloating response to Sherlock's 'death', which John might have expected. No cleverly-staged media appearances either.

But, it's clear that, wherever Moriarty is now, he _had_ been around when Sherlock had staged that rooftop scene and the conversation. The detective _had_ to jump – and John _had_ to be a witness.

John doesn't know all the reasons why, but he doesn't need to. One thing he _is_ sure of – Sherlock needs him now, more than ever. He needs to make sure that the world continues to believe that the consulting detective is dead.

And John Watson will _not_ let him down.


	2. Chapter 2

John hears the cut-off scream as he sprints up the canal, risking life and limb on the wet, slippery tow path. Straining his eyes, he can just make out two struggling figures, one of them much smaller than the other. The attacker's intent is clear; as the doctor approaches, the smaller person is being dragged towards the dark, still water of Regents Canal.

The man has picked his spot well. There are no boats moored along this section, positioned between Camden Market and the Zoo, it's a cloudy November evening, and he has pounced on his victim in the extra shadows of a bridge.

It's perhaps unfortunate for him that John has been trailing the same individual for the past 2 hours.

John speeds up as he sees the pair teetering dangerously on the edge, his thighs burning and chest hammering. Time was he could have sprinted this distance in half the time, but he's out of practice, damn it. The five months since Sherlock's 'death' have not involved any occasions where he's had to run this fast. No more midnight sprints over the moonlit roofs of London. It doesn't help that he's being weighed down by a heavy pack on his back.

With a roar, John makes a final, desperate leap towards the figures, twisting his body so they are all thrown away from the water as he slams into them. Both are knocked to the ground and the impact separates the two, with John falling on his hands and knees in front of them. Before the man can react, John leaps up, ignoring the sharp pain in his knees, and is on him, pulling him up by his coat and pushing him hard against the walls of the bridge.

The man starts to react. He's tall, easily 6 inches taller than the doctor, and muscular – a trained fighter. John can't make out anything useful, the man is dressed top to toe in black and wearing a balaclava; he has only an impression of a big-framed but fast man. A killer. _Ex-military_ , John thinks with the hind part of his brain as he struggles to dominate against the odds, dodging a well-aimed punch.

He feels his feet skidding on the damp, leaf-strewn ground as he does, and his grip loosens briefly. The man takes full advantage – knocking John's hands away and grabbing for his throat, squeezing with one hand as he manoeuvres him back towards the wall.

Gasping for breath, John aims a kick at the man's shins, trying to trip him, but he's firm on his feet and the doctor is helpless against his superior strength. For a moment, he lifts John right off his feet, holding him up by his throat with one hand, and John sees stars. This guy's not as strong as the golem, but it's pretty close.

He makes a last desperate attempt to remove the remorseless hand that is currently cutting off his oxygen supply, as a greater darkness descends. As he scrabbles at the man's arm, he feels himself being pushed backwards against the wall of the bridge. With a quick practised move, the man slams his head back against the rough brick, letting him go as he does so.

John feels his legs giving way. There's a fog over his vision as he slumps to the ground, helpless to prevent the man running away. All he is aware of are footsteps hurrying in the direction of Camden and his own harsh breathing as he fights to get air back into his starved lungs.

For a moment, it seems impossible – he can't gasp the life-giving oxygen in fast enough, and his chest screams with the effort. Bit by bit, his galloping heart starts to calm and he forces himself to take slow gulps of air. The mist recedes somewhat.

He struggles to sit up. There's a hand on his shoulder suddenly, helping him. He blinks quickly, feeling his sight returning, and looks up into a small pale face.

"Thank you."

"It's OK." She sits back on her heels, quite calm. She clearly doesn't intend to thank him for her rescue – possibly she believes she would have got the better of her attacker eventually. John doesn't think she's right, though – the man was quite clearly a trained killer.

The big question is why he hadn't killed John when he'd had an ideal opportunity. It's unlikely he was worried about witnesses. Possibly he _had_ intended to – the severity of the blow to the back of John's head has been reduced somewhat by the backpack he's carrying; the man probably wasn't able to get quite the angle he wanted.

His breath starts to come more easily and, as his eyes adjust to the dark, he gets a better impression of the woman he had been shadowing prior to the attack.

He'd been strolling around Camden Market earlier this afternoon. To all intents and purposes, he'd been just another idle shopper, but he'd been keeping a casual eye on the usual beggars that hung around the area. He'd been doing this for weeks, with no great expectation of success, but on this occasion, he'd finally recognised a member of Sherlock's homeless network.

He didn't know why it hadn't occurred to him to approach them earlier. During the first days and weeks following his revelation, he'd gone through that final day with Sherlock in his head, over and over, trying to spot the clues he'd missed. He'd spent hours rifling through the files and notebooks Sherlock kept in his room; having no compunction about going through the detective's private papers. He'd been hoping to discover some former friend or colleague of Sherlock who might be helping him now. It saddened him to realise after a while that the lonely detective had almost certainly been telling him the truth when he'd said that John was his only friend.

So, who then? Was Sherlock working alone? Or with someone's help – maybe Mycroft? He'd dismissed that idea as soon as it came to him – he didn't need to be a detective to recognise the devastation in the older Holmes brother's eyes, almost but not quite hidden behind the civil servant's usual blank expression. No – whoever was in on Sherlock's plan, it certainly wasn't his brother. Not Lestrade, either.

He'd briefly considered Molly. She'd carried out Sherlock's 'post-mortem', so was quite clearly in on the detective's secret. However, he doubted that she was playing any part in Sherlock's post-Fall plans – he wouldn't have trusted her not to give anything away. Besides, John couldn't approach her without giving away the fact that he knew his friend was alive, and if she knew, she might give him away to someone else, which could put Sherlock in danger - well, _more_ danger, anyway. Molly was a rotten actor – that was clear from her body language at the burial.

And then, quite suddenly, he'd thought about the Homeless Network.

He remembered the biker who'd knocked him down, disorienting him immediately after The Fall. He could see now that this was obviously a ploy, and, looking back, he seemed to remember the lad as being one of Sherlock's contacts. He didn't know if the kid was actually homeless, but certainly some of them were, or appeared to be. It was somewhere to start, anyway.

It was difficult to work out how to contact any member of the Network. In the first place, he had only met a few of them – individuals that Sherlock had contacted during cases. And homeless people could be notoriously mobile – often moved on by the police or hanging around different spots. In between shifts at the surgery, he'd taken to wandering around likely locations in the hope of spotting someone he recognised, but it was a frustrating business.

But today, at Camden, _finally_ , after weeks of trying… the woman - girl, really - was someone that Sherlock had slipped a note to once. She was hanging around the stalls, chatting to some of the stallholders as they packed up. She certainly seemed to know quite a lot of people.

He'd lingered, sipping a takeaway coffee as he watched her rifling through the bins. One of the food vendors handed her a bag of leftovers. As she disappeared down the steps by the canal, onto the tow path, he followed her.

It had been hard-going. He couldn't afford to get to close, in case she'd become aware of him and slipped away, but at the same time, it was a grey, drizzly evening and visibility wasn't that good. He'd had to sit on a bench with his now-cold coffee for some time while she'd lingered, talking to a couple sitting on the bank and sharing her donated pasties with them. He'd strained his eyes, but didn't recognise the others.

Eventually, the group had dispersed, and she'd carried on alone. It was now quite dark, on a lonely and dangerous stretch of the canal – he knew that women had been raped here – but presumably she knew the risks she was taking. She didn't seem nervous – just kept walking without looking around, making John's pursuit easier.

She'd obviously reckoned without the six foot nutter that had leapt out at her.

Looking at her now, he can see that she's older that he'd first thought. She's the size of a thirteen-year-old but is clearly early twenties, at least. Scrawny but not frail, a firm jaw in a thin white face, eyes that are far, far older than her years. A veteran of the streets. But still hungry.

"Here." He pulls his backpack off his shoulders, unzips it and finds an energy bar, which he holds out to her.

She gives it a strangely dismissive glance, but takes it none-the-less, giving him a brisk nod of acknowledgement as she tears off the wrapper and crams it into her mouth. She doesn't even look up as he hands her a second bar, the doctor in him noting her unvoiced desperation.

He takes the chance to pull his medical kit out, along with a bottle of water. He swallows a couple of ibuprofen to ease his aching head. He winces as he feels the bump on his head cautiously, but the injury doesn't feel too serious – no more than a bad bruise and a minor graze. He can deal with it later. He doesn't bother to check his cut knees, but he suspects that his jeans are ruined.

He becomes aware of the woman's glance at his medical kit.

"Do you have any injuries? Do you need treatment?" Even as he says it, he recognises the stupidity of such a question. Clearly, her mind is on the drugs that she presumes he has packed away in there.

But then she surprises him by shaking her head. She looks back at him again, and her eyes are knowing, amused almost. It's _this_ that puts him in mind of his missing friend – this all-seeing gaze – rather than the fact that her eyes are also that indefinable shade of blue-green-grey that he associates with Sherlock. Either way, he feels a sudden ache at his loss, and has to look down quickly.

"What do you want, Doctor Watson?" Her voice is low and husky – _lungs scarred from pneumonia at some point_ , his inner doctor tells him.

"You know who I am?" He's surprised - he doubts he's made _that_ much impression on the Homeless Network. Who _would_ , standing next to Sherlock Holmes?

But then it occurs to him that he hasn't been all that bright after all. She hadn't looked around once while he'd been following her, precisely because she'd _known_ all along that he was there. She'd been testing him, trying to work out how far he'd go. For all he knows, he may have been perfectly obvious to the homeless people he'd been covertly observing for weeks – in fact, it may even be his fault that she's been attacked this evening. Perhaps _he_ was the intended target – or the man was trying to stop a potential source of information. He feels his neck prickle with humiliation – some spy _he'd_ make.

"Yeah. A friend knows all about you."

His head shoots up at this. "You've seen…him?"

She gives him a level look. "Go home, Doc." She gets up and starts walking away from him, in the direction of the Zoo.

"What! But…I can't leave you here." It's weak, but it's all he can think of saying, as he scrambles hastily to his feet. Part of him is convinced that she will lead him to Sherlock; he can't bring himself to let her go. However, it's equally clear that she won't tolerate his company further.

She casts an incredulous look over one shoulder and keeps walking.

"But, wait, look, there must be something I can do?" He's thinking desperately – he can't let this source go. "Something you want? I can get you food, money, anything –."

She stops and regards him again; her eyebrows have risen at his last word. "Yeah? Anything at all?" Her eyes drop to the kit in his hands, her intent clear.

He holds it out to her. "Here, take it. There isn't –" he winces a little, "- there's nothing _illegal_ in there… but there's bandages, pain killers, antibiotics. If he – your friend – or you – need anything…"

She reaches out to take the kit, but he stops her, stashing it back into the large backpack and holding that out instead. "Here - take it all. There's food, water, cigarettes and matches, some warm clothes, a blanket … I'm sure you – or someone – will be able to find a use for everything." He doesn't tell her that there's also money – five hundred pounds in notes, stashed in the inside pocket of a thick dark jacket, brand new, in Sherlock's size. She'll find it eventually – or someone will. It might get to the right hands.

She hesitates, looking up at him. He knows his eyes are desperate – he sees the same expression often enough in his mirror each morning.

"It's all I can do." He hardly recognises the voice that emerges; it's no more than a croak.

She seems to accept this, taking the backpack and shrugging it on. "OK."

She turns away from him again, and this time he lets her go. He's done all he can. He feels his shoulders slumping in defeat as he makes no attempt to follow the small figure.

But then she comes back anyway – comes right up to him, her mouth ghosting his ear.

"He still needs to be dead, Doctor Watson."

* * *

He doesn't quite know how it happens, but his reputation spreads.

It starts off with the sixteen-year-old boy who is hit by a car right outside 221B. John's just getting in from work, having popped into Tesco's for milk on the way, when there's a screech of brakes and a thud. It's raining hard and there's no one else on the street to witness the minor accident. It's fortunate the car wasn't going too fast – it looks as if the boy ran in front of it and didn't quite make it.

He drops his shopping bag and hurries over. After shouting at the kid, the driver has speeded away, too quickly for John to catch the number. He mutters a few choice words about selfish drivers and attends to the boy. He has a few cuts and bruises, but doesn't look too bad.

The scruffy teenager refuses medical treatment – obviously homeless and wants to avoid the police - and won't even go up to the flat, so John brings his new kit down. He manages to coax the boy into the dryness of the porch as long as the door stays open and cleans the wounds up, kneeling on the floor, while Mrs Hudson brings sugary tea and biscuits and generally fusses around the boy. He smiles his thanks at them both, and makes off quickly without a word, leaving the doctor and his landlady standing on the step, wondering what has just happened.

About a week after that, there's a tentative knock at the door. Another kid, with a nasty cut on his ankle caused by rusty barbed wire. It's puffy and he's clearly waited until things got bad, so, after cleaning and bandaging the wound, John gives him some paracetamol and digs out the last of his stash of antibiotics.

As he instructs the kid about dosage, with no real hope that his instructions will be followed correctly, he realises that he'll have to forge another prescription. He knows that Sarah, who keeps the records at the practice, has turned a blind eye in the past to any irregularities – she probably thinks it preferable to the dreadful alternative of Sherlock Holmes turning up at the surgery for treatment. He prays that she will continue to do so, out of loyalty to her colleague and ex-boyfriend. He'll have to be careful though. If she suspects addiction, she'll take action immediately – and she'd never believe the truth.

The following week, another infected cut. A wrist fracture, which John refers to A&E. A suspected broken rib, which he binds tightly and hopes for the best when the man refuses 'official' treatment. A neglected case of pneumonia – this time, John does call an ambulance, although he doubts the woman will live through the night.

More casualties as the weeks and months go by. More fake prescriptions. Sometimes, John fears he might be supplying some third party, though it's unlikely anyone would bother obtaining such small quantities of drugs from an NHS doctor. He wonders where on earth these people went for help before they started knocking at 221B Baker Street.

He doesn't attempt to question anyone about Sherlock. There's a tacit understanding between himself and his unusual patients that he will just assess and treat, without any acknowledgement. And besides, he's not sure he recognises any of the people he sees. He doesn't know for certain that they are connected to the detective, although he guesses they may be. Part of him – the ever-hopeful part that he keeps buried deep inside - believes that Sherlock is sending these people here for a reason. He's trying to communicate John's continuing usefulness – to make him feel less helpless.

So John continues in his role, quietly and without fuss. It's all he can do. Sometimes he rifles through Sherlock's clothes as well as his own, to retrieve and pass on spare socks, pants, scarves, gloves and jumpers (which the detective, rather surprisingly, owns a number of - many of them clearly never worn). He doesn't think Sherlock would mind – it's quite clear that life has changed dramatically for his friend. No more comfortable flats with a generous landlady, where he can play his violin at 3AM and steal his flatmate's laptop with impunity. Sherlock's thrown his lot in with his homeless friends for the sake of anonymity, and the rules of the game have changed.

He wonders how the circumstances have affected Sherlock's self-diagnosed sociopathological tendencies (a diagnosis that John has privately never agreed with). Has the detective abandoned at least some of his individualism for the sake of communal survival? He can't imagine it, but one thing's for sure - Sherlock has never been without a ready supply of money in his life, even if he cares little for it. John doesn't think the detective has ever realised what it's like not to know where your next meal will come from or whether you'll have a bed to sleep in tonight. It might just affect his attitude towards warm food and a comfortable bed if he's ever in a position to return to his former life. _When_... _when_ he returns, John tells himself firmly. And it _might_ just give him a little more empathy towards those without the same comforts.

It's certainly opening John's eyes to a new world. As a doctor, he's always been abstractly aware of those on the periphery of society and has had a vague undirected desire to do something about it... but now he's learning that it's not quite as simple as throwing a handful of cash at a charity box.

Sometimes, Mrs Hudson mutters a complaint about the extra and somewhat undesirable traffic coming through her front door, but usually she keeps silent.

Perhaps she's seen the look of intense determination on John's face as he tends his patients.

The look that says he _will_ keep on treating the wounds and binding up the broken bones and handing out the food and spare clothes and blankets. The look that says that each time he does this, he's doing it for Sherlock. These injuries are _his_ injuries, this hunger is _his_ hunger, this exposure to the cruelty of a wintry London wind is - potentially - _his_ exposure.

And, one day… _one day, just maybe_ …

* * *

"Will you come?"

John's thoughts fly away, with painful clarity, to another occasion when he'd been sitting in this chair and Lestrade had made that same heartfelt request…but not to him. On that occasion, he'd felt unimportant – sidelined. This time, though, the request _is_ addressed to him – and, oh God, _how_ he wishes it wasn't.

For a moment, he's not sure whether to laugh or cry.

But _this_ isn't a request to attend some mysterious crime scene, oh no. Lestrade's kept his job, but he's been assigned to lesser crimes – the humdrum domestics; the fights between rival gangs of teenage boys that have ended in tragedy; the beatings meted out to vulnerable prostitutes and homeless people. It's while on one of those cases that Lestrade's seen something that has troubled him, hence the request.

John glances up at him over the top of his journal. He hasn't done the DI the courtesy of getting up or inviting him to sit down – why the hell should he? It's 7PM, he's just come off a long shift and is looking forward to a cup of tea and a flick through the classified section of the British Medical Journal – he's vaguely looking for a part-time job that might give him more time for his other activities. He's recently started volunteering a couple of evenings a week at a health clinic held in a Salvation Army hall for homeless people.

It's not his fault that Mrs Hudson let the DI in.

"To the station? With you? Don't think so, _mate_." He puts a savage emphasis on the last word.

He hasn't been anywhere near New Scotland Yard since The Fall; hasn't seen Donovan or Anderson or anyone apart from Lestrade since then. A team _did_ eventually pay a visit to the flat as part of the on-going investigation into Sherlock's assumed crimes, but Lestrade had got wind of it from Donovan and phoned ahead to warn him. John had made sure he was out when the team arrived. As far as he could tell when he returned, Mrs Hudson having rung to let him know the coast was clear, they'd not caused any damage and had scrupulously returned everything to its proper place. It was the very least they could do. Not least because he'd gathered, from what Lestrade had very carefully _not_ said in his brief phone call, that they could find no evidence of any wrong-doing. It looked very much as if Sherlock's name would soon be cleared.

Anyway, right now, he's not disposed to be of any help to the police whatsoever. He focuses his gaze back on his BMJ, ignoring the hovering DI.

Lestrade sighs. "Can't say I blame you. Ain't a whole barrel of laughs up there at the moment. Donovan's in big trouble for stirring it all up in the first place – she's not on my team any more but that's what they tell me –"

John cuts him off by lowering the journal and glaring up at him. "Not interested, Greg. _Really_ not interested." _That bitch_ , he thinks in his mind.

Lestrade heeds the warning; waves his hand in mute apology.

"Yeah, of course. Anyway. Thought you might react this way, so I got a copy made."

John takes the photo held out to him, interested despite himself. It's a picture of a murder scene; he can make out a foot sticking up in the bottom right hand corner. But this photo is not focused on the body.

He keeps his face carefully blank as he reads the words scrawled on the alley wall with a spray can. Two foot high letters, in white. He's aware of the DI's attention as he moves the photo closer to his face to see if there are any clues.

"Interesting, eh?" Lestrade comments.

John hands the photo back, feigning nonchalance. "Where'd you get it? One of _your_ scenes, was it – they got you out of domestics now? Or are you just scrabbling around in other people's cases, looking for something interesting to do?"

He doesn't know why he has to be so unpleasant to Lestrade. He's not the real enemy, not really. He did at least _try_ to understand Sherlock…

Lestrade frowns, ignoring the jibe. "But – the _words_ , John! _I Believe in Sherlock Holmes_. Who'd write that _now_? You must have a theory, surely?"

John shrugs. "What do you want me to say, Greg? It's got nothing to do with me. You know what he was like – he attracted fans. Perhaps one of them actually believes he's inn - he _was_ innocent." He corrects himself quickly, hoping Lestrade hasn't noticed the slip.

The DI is too busy staring at the photo, trying to make sense of the message. His eyes are tired, his face puffy, and he's almost completely grey now; too much stress, too many sleepless nights, too much strong coffee, and too many takeaways in lieu of a decent meal. John wonders if his unfaithful wife has finally left him, or whether it's just that he can't bear to be at home in her company for long enough to cook properly. Lestrade cuts a lonely figure, and he feels a brief twinge of concern. The man just screams _increased risk of cardiac arrest_ at John's inner doctor.

He relents. "C'mon, Greg, take a break, why don't you? You must be off-duty now, right?" _Otherwise, there's no way you'd come anywhere near me_ , he adds silently. It's quite clear that Greg has officially been taken _off_ the Sherlock case.

He gets up and pushes the man towards his chair in a friendly manner. "I'll cook us something, alright? Just take it easy for a bit."

Lestrade sits down gratefully and looks up at him. "You sure? Don't wanna put you out."

"No problem, was going to cook anyway." John walks towards the kitchen, thinking about what's in the fridge right now. He can probably cobble together a veggie curry – Greg looks like he could do with a good dose of vitamin C.

"It's weird though, innit?" Greg's voice floats through the archway between the kitchen and the lounge. "What's even weirder is that forensics reckon the body'd been there for about an hour – station got one of those anonymous tip-off phone calls. And yet, the paint from _this_ was still wet when we got there. So someone did it _after_ the kid was murdered."

"Kid?" queries John, feeling something cold trickling down his spine. _Surely not_ …

"Yeah, eighteen-year-old. We recognise him, was part of a trafficking gang we've been after."

"Eighteen-year-old involved in trafficking?" John doesn't bother to keep the scepticism out of his voice, as he digs some broccoli out of the fridge. All the time, his mind is racing as he thinks of the boys he's been treating over the past few weeks.

"Yeah, son of one of the traffickers. Chinese gang," Lestrade elaborates, and John feels a rush of relief as he chops mechanically. Doesn't fit any descriptions – not of the kids he's treated or of Raz, the graffiti artist that Sherlock knows.

His mind turns to the message. Interesting idea – he wonders who came up with it. Could be Raz, but it's not what he remembers of the boy's style. And why would anyone write the message _after_ discovering the dead body… and then, apparently, leave without contacting the police?

_I Believe in Sherlock Holmes_.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to make a confession here – I know very little about crime scene procedures, or about spray painting, which may become fairly clear in this chapter! I apologise in advance for any technical inaccuracies. Also, I mention John's birthday here, and I'm not clear exactly when it's supposed to be, but I've seen some sources that suggest July, so that's what I've assumed.

_I Believe in Sherlock Holmes_.

John sprays the message in smallish, firm letters, in the unique style that Raz has helped him develop.

He started out with much bigger, bolder letters but learned very quickly that if you draw too much attention to a piece of graffiti, it's much more likely to be painted over. This way, with just small messages in unlikely corners, there's more of a chance that the message will be preserved. The more people that see it, the better.

John finishes with his usual flourish. He's got pretty good at this; he'll never be much of an artist, but he's learned from Raz that everyone has their unique style and that it's not considered polite among the street artists to copy some else's style. And this is _his_ style. After the 's' of _Holmes_ , he finishes off with a small triangular shape. The left side curves outward and the right side curves inward, to give the impression of a single flame.

He doesn't know why he does that. Partly, he supposes, to make his contribution look more unique. Perhaps because it was _that_ wintry night, ages ago, after Lestrade had left, that John had gazed into the fire at 221B, and the thought had occurred to him…

After that, it was surprisingly easy to track down Raz, get some advice and pass the message on. And the phrase started to appear in random places, all over London.

John prides himself on his ability to recognise which individual is responsible for each message – in most cases, at least. There are some he doesn't recognise, but then there are still members of the Homeless Network he's not sure of, even though he knows most by name by now. He's even come across people spraying the message, and will share a private smile with them as he passes.

He knows it's driving Lestrade crazy. The phrase now turns up regularly at crime scenes. John has to swear blind that he's never been anywhere near the scenes – which is absolutely true. He has no idea who can be leaving those messages. John feels a little guilty sometimes, especially as he's mellowed towards Greg, but then he can say, quite honestly, that he's _not_ responsible for any of the messages the DI comes across. Even if he is for many others.

John stands back, peruses the letters and the flame symbol, and gives a satisfied nod. He stashes the can in his backpack and slips away.

He gazes up at the dark roof of Barts and shudders. It has taken him a very long time to come back here. Three years, in fact.

He slips away, quietly, his booted feet making very little sound on the tarmac. It's getting on for 2AM and deathly quiet. He wonders briefly whether Molly is on duty tonight, and the thought sends his mind slipping back to The Woman, who faked her own death that cold, winter night. He remembers Mycroft's revelation of her eventual demise and finds himself wondering, not for the first time, whether she'd been able to fake it that time too. Unlikely she'd escaped a Taliban murder squad, but then he'd believe anything of Irene Adler.

He wonders what she'd do if she was still alive. How would she have reacted to Sherlock's death? Would she have seen through the fakery immediately? Would she have seen something that he, and Greg - and even Mycroft - hadn't?

Would she have been on Sherlock's side?

He feels the familiar pain of betrayal going through him. It doesn't seem to get any better; as time goes by, he just grows more bitter.

Initially, when he'd first realised Sherlock was alive, he'd felt elation and a grim sense of purpose. The months of trying to find clues and track down the Homeless Network had been frustrating, but at least he'd had a reason for getting up each day.

Since his unlikely rescue of the girl at Regents Canal - Bex, as she's known - the Network has made it clear that he is one of them. He's accepted - he's useful. They still come to him for treatment; that hasn't changed. It's all progress.

But, beyond that, he feels himself to be in a state of limbo. He goes to his now part-time job at the surgery, comes home, takes tea with Mrs Hudson from time to time, has Greg over for a meal occasionally or meets the DI at a pub instead, does his regular hours at the voluntary health clinic for homeless people, and checks up on his contacts in the Network from time to time. And that's about it. He hasn't been out on a date since The Fall – can't be bothered to spend the time getting to know any women. What's the point, when there's only one person - and one issue - that matters?

He shivers slightly, hunching his shoulders in his inadequate jacket. It's been a damp, chilly June, and right now it feels as cold as any autumn in London. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and walks on doggedly, now desperately tired and in need of his bed. Thank God he's got tomorrow off.

He feels… old. That's it. He'll be turning forty in July after all. It's a milestone, anyway, even if he'll be even more lonely this year than he was when he turned thirty.

Unless, by some miracle…

But John doesn't believe in miracles any more. He used up all his miracles three years ago, when he begged Sherlock for just more one.

And, OK, Sherlock _did_ grant him that miracle… but what difference has it made?

Yes, Sherlock is alive, but he might as well be dead for all the difference it's made to John. The doctor is as lonely as he was that day in the cemetery. He knows he's lost weight, that his hair has gone prematurely grey – and that he cuts a pathetic figure with his limp, and the cane he occasionally resorts to, and the tremor in his hand. He knows that Sarah and the other doctors - and even his bloody patients sometimes - look at him with undisguised pity. He knows _exactly_ why Mrs Hudson makes her regular trip up the stairs with a plate of biscuits or a cake that she 'just happens to have', and why Greg Lestrade texts almost every week to arrange dinner or a drink.

He also knows why he occasionally spots one of Mycroft's black cars following him along the street. Of course, he strenuously refuses to get into any of them – and rather surprisingly, he's never been coerced – yet. In fact, he's not spoken to Mycroft since the burial. Even the name still makes the bile rise in his throat.

He knows that he looks like a widower. It's small consolation to know that he isn't one.

He knows exactly why it hurts so much. Sherlock fooled _him_ , his best friend – his _only_ friend – because he _knew_ he could. He knew that good old John Watson would believe the evidence of his own eyes. He _needed_ John to be fooled. It hurts - really _hurts_ \- that he didn't trust his friend with the truth...that he so clearly didn't believe that John would be a good enough actor.

John gives a cheerless chuckle that echoes in the silent night time street. Ironic that, since he's been giving the best performance of his life for a very long time now.

He's better at it than Molly, anyway. He knows perfectly well why she avoids him. He can't find it in him to feel any anger, though – at least Sherlock had someone to help him. And he knows that Molly would have done anything for the detective. He can understand that feeling, even if he doesn't quite share the same motivations.

It's not that he resents the efforts he's been making to help Sherlock out, in some small way. He knows he's doing something positive in providing care and supplies to the Network, and that he's doing his best to keep Sherlock's name and reputation alive. And he's always staunchly defended the detective against any allegations. It's just that...it would _help_ if he knew it was actually making a difference.

He feels even more alone now than he did when Sherlock jumped off that building. He doesn't know where Sherlock is. He still doesn't really know why he had to disappear, although he has his suspicions. And he doesn't know for certain whether he is really helping, or whether the detective knows of his efforts. He never hears anything; he doesn't ask and his contacts don't volunteer anything. He's always told himself that this is the best way to keep Sherlock safe, but he doesn't _know_.

He cuts up Great Russell Street, past the silent British Museum. As always, his feet take him automatically in the right direction – the magnet that is 221B Baker Street. He's been asked a few times over the years whether he'd consider moving somewhere less expensive, but he's never dignified this question with an answer.

In fact, he hasn't struggled with the rent. He knows that Mrs Hudson has an arrangement with Mycroft, and he's never challenged it. It's the least Sherlock's brother can do – and it means that he can still afford his flat, even on his reduced salary. He couldn't move now anyway. Where would his homeless patients go when they needed informal treatment?

He wonders whether Sherlock ever feels that same magnetic pull – whether, when he's not thinking properly, his feet start to move him automatically in the direction of Baker Street. Does he ever have to steel himself to pull his feet back? John doesn't know if Sherlock ever felt quite the same way about their flat as he did. He'd probably sneer, make some comment about sentiment. John doesn't give a damn. Baker Street is home; will always be home.

Has John ever seen Sherlock and not known it? Has Sherlock ever been in the vicinity of Baker Street in some disguise or other? Has he stood across the street and gazed longingly up at his old home?

He doesn't bother to wonder whether Sherlock misses _him_ – whether he feels the same aching _need_ that consumes John. Why would he? Sherlock has never _needed_ anyone – any friend - or at least, has never acknowledged any need. Why expect him to change now?

He sometimes wonders whether Sherlock even received the clothes he packed for him – the warm jumpers and that new coat John bought him, shorter and less flashy than the dangerously familiar Belstaff coat. He's never asked Bex what she did with that bag, but he hopes it reached its target. Certainly, he's never seen Sherlock's distinctive coat since that day in the cemetery.

Will he have changed? John knows that he himself has aged considerably in just three years – he only has to look in the mirror to see his silvery hair and the new lines on his face. He certainly looks far older than forty. And Sherlock must surely have disguised himself in some way…but John can't imagine his friend without the black curls and those sharp oddly-coloured eyes in that pale face. The friend he remembers was a young-looking thirty-four year-old, all planes and angles, and dramatic gestures, and light on his feet. He can't visualise an older Sherlock. The thought of the man without that youthful, restless energy seems laughable.

He sighs as he cuts up Gower Street. Time was he could do this route in half the time. He's begun to realise that Barts is a bloody long way from Baker Street and he's _knackered_. He must have been mad to have gone all this way tonight. It seemed like a good way of marking the three-year anniversary, and he desperately wanted to get rid of this last demon in the hope of moving on.

But it hasn't helped.

He'd travelled by Tube, but had found he was unable to approach Barts at first. He'd spent a couple of hours lurking around St Pauls before he could summon up the courage. And then, when he'd got there, he'd found that his legs wouldn't work and he'd had to sit on a pavement and concentrate on his breathing just to dispel the memories of that most terrible of days. It was interesting to note how many people stepped around or, almost, over him, without comment.

And then there'd been a spate of evening emergencies, and he'd been unable to approach the wall that he'd intended to decorate until the area had quietened down a bit – he hadn't wanted to attract attention.

It was the wall that Sherlock had made him stand near before The Fall. The wall that, no doubt, was intended to block John's view of the detective's trick. It seemed vitally important that John mark _this_ wall, of all walls, and that no one tried to stop him. That was why he'd had to wait until the early hours.

Oh well. It was probably a better way of spending the anniversary.

Certainly better than the first anniversary, on which he didn't venture out all day, just sat in his chair downing too many bottles of beer before sinking into a morose stupor. The following day, he'd endured a miserable hangover while chucking out all the other bottles in the flat. With his family's history with alcoholism, he knew the score – if he started going down that route of drinking alone, there'd be no hope for him. Since then, he'd been careful to limit himself to a couple of pints, and always in the presence of others.

On the second anniversary, he'd kept himself deliberately busy, putting in extra hours at the voluntary health clinic, and then walking the streets of London, spending hours checking up on his homeless contacts, until he could hardly walk on his bad leg.

Talking of bad legs… he hesitates, trying to make up his mind which way to go. He could keep to the major roads – continue up Gower Street and pick up a taxi that he can ill-afford these days but which will save him from the inevitable stiffness and pain that he will otherwise experience tomorrow. Or he could cut into the deserted back streets…

…And perhaps, that way, he will finally draw out the individual who has been following him almost since he left Barts.

He checks his step slightly, listening carefully – and there it is again. An almost-silent footfall, just out of time with his own footsteps. Still there, then. About fifty yards behind him, he judges.

He doesn't look around; just keeps walking on, his eyes firmly forward. Whoever it is either doesn't want him to see them, or doesn't want anyone else to witness any contact between them.

Not an assassin. Anyone wanting to attack him has had plenty of opportunities between Barts and here, and in much quieter spots of the city. Someone from the Homeless Network? Maybe, but then why _follow_ him? They know where he lives and, in any case, usually have no problems being seen with him.

Whoever the person is, he or she is clever enough to be able to imitate John's slightly uneven gait accurately, but not clever enough to predict exactly when John might stop suddenly. So, not Sherlock, he's sure of that. Sherlock, knowing John as he does, would realise that the doctor was aware of his shadow, and would definitely predict his hesitation. But it's someone _almost_ as clever as the consulting detective.

John makes his decision, cutting left up University Street. To any onlooker, it seems like a sensible route – he can eventually divert onto Great Portland Street, which will take him almost all the way home. But it also leads to University College London, the grounds of which are slightly familiar to him. He's fairly sure he can shake off a pursuer in the deserted campus grounds if he needs to or can find a dark quiet corner if the person is an informant needing anonymity.

He walks slowly, with a heavy limp that is only partially feigned. He's giving his shadow the chance to catch up with him. Again, there's the slightest of echoes as the individual's footsteps go out of sync with his own.

Up ahead, by UCL, there seems to be some activity. He squints at the faint flashing lights, trying to make out individual figures. As he approaches, and the nature of the lights become clearer, he realises with a sinking heart that he's approaching a crime scene.

He stops and starts to turn away, planning to cut down another road.

"John!"

He stops dead. As he turns his head back towards the university campus, he catches out of the corner of his eye a slim figure slipping away in the shadows. He has an impression of considerable height and a certain feline grace, but he doesn't dare look more carefully and draw attention to the shadowy figure, with Greg approaching him at some speed. But, just for a moment, he fancies he's seen that figure before… years ago… not in London, but -

"John, what the hell are you doing here?"

Greg's voice drives out the half-memory forming in John's mind, and he curses silently.

The Detective Inspector's face is grey with fatigue, his eyes sharp and worried.

"I was –," _What? Taking a walk? In the middle of the night?_ "- on my way home," he concludes, rather lamely. "What's happened here?"

Greg sighs. "Another random murder. Another gang member – drugs this time. We got a tip-off – untraceable, as always. And the usual message."

"What message?" he responds, rather dumbly.

Greg gives him an unimpressed look. "I _think_ you know what I mean, John. Come and see."

John resists the hand pulling at his arm. "Is that a good idea? Thought you'd tightened security these days – strictly no unauthorised people."

Greg sighs again. "You know what? I don't give a shit."

Raising his eyebrows at the DI's rather frank response, John allows himself to be escorted to the scene. There's a young woman at the police tape, not Sally but possibly a clone of her, judging by the suspicious and unfriendly look she gives the doctor. He hopes like hell she doesn't insist on searching his bag, particularly if he's about to see what he thinks he is.

"Here it is."

John spares a quick look at the figure on the floor. A small, rather ratty-looking man, late forties, possibly Eastern European. But his main focus is on the message scrawled on the nearby wall.

_I Believe in Sherlock Holmes_

John looks closely, trying to recognise the style. Usual white spray paint (the can is his bag is red, fortunately), letters a metre high. The letters are very bold, but there's no particular style. No individual 'signature' that he can recognise. The painter was working quickly, but not so quickly that he/she wasn't able to make sure that each letter was completed properly and didn't run into the next letter. And it didn't happen that long ago either – he can judge that without approaching very closely.

"Paint still wet," Lestrade comments, as if he's read John's mind.

"Mmm," he murmurs, trying not to catch the DI's eye.

Greg says nothing for a minute. Suddenly, he puts a firm hand on John's arm again and pulls him away from the scene. By mutual consent, they walk further into the dark campus, cutting along the pedestrianized walkway behind the science block.

As soon as they are out of sight, Greg moves away and turns to face John, folding his arms in a no-nonsense manner.

"OK, what's going on, then?" he demands, in a return to the impatient mood he often used to have around Sherlock.

John turns to him, unconsciously imitating his stance. "Don't know what you mean, Greg."

The DI snorts his disbelief. "Yeah, course you don't. C'mon, John, I know you've been going out at night, decorating the walls with that fucking message."

"You don't –"

The DI explodes, suddenly. "For fuck's sake, John, I've _seen_ you!"

There's silence. John's mind is working quickly. "When?"

Lestrade sighs, running his hand over his face in a weary gesture. "Last October. You were under Hungerford Bridge. I was on my way back from a case on the Embankment – I was gonna call out to you, but you didn't look like you wanted company. You went up to a beggar under the bridge, spoke to him for a moment, gave him something – money? – and then you started spraying the wall right by his head. Then you left. Couple of minutes later, the bloke moved off too in the other direction, at a surprising speed for someone with a gammy leg. I had to hide round the corner of the steps. I've seen your handiwork since then too. I recognised it by the symbol – what does that mean, by the way?"

John ignores this. "Well then, you know it's never been found at any crime scene."

"So far," the DI mutters.

John's head shoots up at this. "What the hell's _that_ supposed to mean? What do you take me for, Greg? Do you really think I'd come across a body and _not_ call 999?"

Lestrade gazes at him intently. "I trust you, John. If you say you're not responsible for this, then you're not. But right now, you're the only link I've got. The street artists won't talk – never have done."

"They might for _this_ ," John suggests. By now, he knows the artists well enough to know that their loyalty is to each other – a kind of professional code. He's pretty sure it doesn't extend to potential murderers.

"No, they won't," responds Lestrade, with assurance. "Well…not to _us_ , anyway." The implication is clear.

John shrugs. "I'll do what I can." He genuinely doesn't know if he can be of any help to Lestrade. Will Raz and his mates talk to him and, even if they do, will they know anything useful? There's a risk of getting them into trouble – and not necessarily with the police. Lestrade's team clearly don't know whether the painter and the murderer are one and the same – they are obviously assuming he/she might be, but so far, there's no forensic evidence to connect the two acts. Only the fact that the painting certainly takes place shortly after the killing.

This is where they need Sherlock, more than ever.

In any case, he's got other problems. Who is his mystery pursuer? Is there any connection to this case? And _where the hell is Sherlock these days_? Is he even still in London, in the UK? For all John knows, he could be in Tunisia, Peru, Japan, Pakistan… For all he knows, he could be wasting his time trying to help his friend.

He does _not_ need to be getting involved with the Yard again. And yet…he feels the gaping hole in his life. The danger, the pursuit…

He sighs and gives in – as much to his own curiosity as anything else. "Who's the informant? Is it the same voice each time?"

"No, always different – sometimes male, sometimes female, old, young, foreign, East End, regional English – you name it." Greg shakes his head. "Never the same voice. But always the same format – just a post code. We've learnt to get there quickly when we get that message now. But it's never any good – always just too late."

"Same method?"

"Always the same – strangulation with some kind of thin cord or wire. From behind. Must be a big bugger – angle's always from above."

John's mind goes back to a dark canal path and a viciously strong hand at his windpipe, cutting off his air. Slightly different method, though… or just more prepared? That man was tall too. He's never reported the incident, and no one ever noticed the bruises.

"You said 'always just too late'. Do you - do you think the phone call happens _before_ the murder?"

"Well, take tonight." Greg gets out his notebook and frowns at the last page. "Call comes in to 999 at 2:02. Usual – muffled voice asks for police, gets put through, gives a post code and hangs up. Too quick to trace location, always a mobile number but different each time. Random pay-as-you-go numbers for cheap phone models, always paid for in cash at different mobile shops around the city. So…we get here at 2:16 – bloke's still warm. Dunno exact time to death yet, but can't be more than ten minutes – fifteen at outside. Previous killings been estimated as no more than 30 minutes before we get there. And the paint's still wet – message painted no more than 5 to 10 minutes before."

"Can you tell anything else about the killer? You're sure it's the same person?" John thinks it through, carefully. What would Sherlock ask? What is he missing?

Lestrade hesitates. "Same height, anyway – about six two, they reckon. Definitely male. Very strong, but he must be quick too, and light-footed. Seems to take the victim by surprise. They don't know much about it – dead within minutes, always from strangulation. He's efficient, I'll give him that. And never leaves a trace – always takes the weapon with him. We've found minute traces of a white cord on some of the bodies, can't identify it as any particular make. And he never leaves any DNA – he'll be fully clothed and gloved. No traces of any fabric. He's professional."

"Ex-military," John murmurs, almost to himself, but Lestrade takes him up on it.

"You think so? He certainly knows what he's doing." The DI frowns. "No…unnecessary violence, if I can put it like that. No…emotion. Just a quick kill."

"And any link between the victims?"

Again, Greg consults his notes. "Twelve so far, over a thirty month period – spread out, at least six weeks between each hit, but just random enough that we can't predict the exact date of the next. All over the city – no pattern that we can find in the location, just dark places, abandoned at night. All men. All low-life scum that we've been trying to catch out for a while. Three Chinese, four Eastern Europeans, one Brazilian, the rest White British. All involved in gangs – drugs, arms, prostitutes, child workers – you name it."

"In other words, not particularly desirable," John points out.

Lestrade gives a dry chuckle. "Yeah, we noticed that."

"Some kind of vigilante, then? Someone trying to clean the streets by the most direct route possible? Maybe the killer himself – or maybe he's a hired gun. Ex-military would seem to suggest that – there's enough of them out there looking for work and money."

"Yeah, but the victims are usually pretty junior, so it's a pain. He's cutting off our route to the master criminal each time."

"Ah… so not so police-friendly after all."

Lestrade lets out a frustrated sigh. "It's almost as if he knows how we operate. You know how it goes, identify the gang members, work out the weaknesses, try to get an undercover in there at the lower end. Try to find the stupid ones, the greedy ones, the pissed-off ones and work on them. Get the evidence, get out and arrest the big boy. This guy, he's cutting off our potential informants. It's always the ones we were eyeing for a possible approach. And then… the message."

"You think it's a message, then?"

Greg eyes him. "Don't you?"

John gives a small smile. "Oh, I do. What I meant was – is it a message for _you_?"

The DI's gaze is shrewd. "You probably don't want to talk about this, but… why do _you_ do it?"

John thinks for a minute. Bloody ironic if he's been imitating a murderer all this time, and encouraging Raz and his mates and the Homeless Network to join in.

"John? Why _now_ – when he's dead?"

"Why do you _think_?" he snaps, glaring at the DI. "Just because those bloody idiots at the Yard think he's a faker – despite the fact that none of you - _none_ _of you_ \- have found a _single_ scrap of evidence against him in _three fucking_ _years_ of searching, it doesn't mean that there aren't some of us out there who have never stopped believing he was real."

He stops abruptly and turns his head away, feeling the humiliating prickle of moisture at the corners of his eyes. Even now, it can catch him – that pain. But underneath it, as he fights to stop the angry tears, he feels a new sensation of queasiness. He can feel the sweat trickling down his lower spine and, for a moment, he thinks he may throw up his dinner all over the bushes.

Has he been the … plaything… of a killer? Who is that message for? Is it someone taunting the police – pointing out that they've lost the only man who had a chance of solving the case? Or does the messenger _know_ that Sherlock is still alive? Is it a message to Sherlock – and is John the conduit? He has a sudden overwhelming fear that he's just been repeating a message designed to taunt Sherlock – to draw him out for one last 'game'.

He realises that Greg is talking again, and the level voice seems to ground him. "I'm sorry, mate. I believed in him too, you know."

The DI looks out over the quiet campus buildings, not quite meeting John's eyes. His voice is quiet and John has to strain to hear the words. "I never _didn't_ believe in him, not really. I _had_ to report what Sally said – if I hadn't, she'd have gone over my head anyway, and I would've been cut out of the arrest. This way, I hoped I'd be able to give him some back-up."

He smiles, bitterly. "You forget that I knew him a long time before you came along. I remember when he first started hanging out at crime scenes, telling us that we were wrong. I was a DS back then. He was just some skinny kid. He didn't have that coat; he just looked like any other fucked-up drop-out student, but there was that…something about him. Some intensity in his eyes…when he wasn't high as a kite on fuck knows what. I knew all about _that_ too – arrested him myself once or twice for possession. But…I liked him – I wanted to see him clean. Wanted him to make _something_ of his life. Dunno why, really."

He turns away very slightly, hiding his face. "That's why I kept an eye on him - later on, when he was detoxing. And, when I made DI, I kept inviting him back to scenes and giving him unsolved case files, to take his mind off the drugs. Yeah, OK, so it made my job easier in one way…but it was also about _him_ – you know? I wanted to give him something to _live_ for."

He coughs uncomfortably – the DI is not usually the type to pour his heart out, and he's clearly finding this difficult. "See… I got nothing much going on in my life – you know all the stuff about my wife, and we've never had kids – and I'm just this stupid plodding detective who gets the shit cases that no one else wants… and looking out for Sherlock gave me… something _important_ to do – you know what I mean?"

He turns back, and gives John a wry – almost sad - smile. "And then, one day, along comes this ex-army doctor. And I wasn't needed any more, not in the same way. Not that it really matters, but… suddenly, he had something else – _someone else_ \- to live for."

John shakes his head emphatically. "That's not true, Greg – it's _not_ what you think, not what everyone always seemed to think about us –"

"Yeah, it _is_ , John." The DI interrupts, waving his hand at John's automatic denial. "No, I don't mean _that_ – I know there's nothing going on between you. But, sometimes I'd see him look at you as if he was – he was… _startled_ by something – some realisation. First time I saw it was after that cabbie died – he was standing there by the ambulance and deducing the likely killer, and then suddenly he broke off, and I _saw_ the way he looked at you."

Lestrade speaks slowly; he's not used to talk of this nature, and doesn't seem to know quite how to word what he's trying to say. "I think… he was realising something about himself…and I'm pretty sure he was finding out that he was capable of caring about someone else for the first time in his life. And it _scared_ him – it scared the shit out of him. He wasn't _supposed_ to care – at some point, some doctor or other, or perhaps his brother or mother, told him he wasn't capable of it, and he'd always believed it. But _you_ …" Greg shakes his head. "I don't get it, John. What's _different_ – what's so special about _you_?" He doesn't mean it as an insult; he's genuinely perplexed.

"I don't know." John feels stunned, almost breathless. He'd known Sherlock for only eighteen months before the detective 'died', and he realises now that he's never guessed half of what went on in the detective's head. There he was, thinking he knew Sherlock better than anyone. What arrogance!

He might have understood the man's moods, perhaps better than anyone, save Mycroft, and he's pretty sure that no one else has ever cared about Sherlock as much as he has. But if _Greg Lestrade_ , of all people, could detect something in Sherlock's emotions that John never even suspected, living in close proximity all those months, then clearly he didn't know his friend as well as he thought. His mind goes back to that graveyard in Dartmoor - those words about John being his 'one friend', that strange intensity in Sherlock's eyes as he stared at him - and he feels an odd, undefinable sensation of warmth in his stomach.

Sherlock always maintained that caring was a disadvantage and yet, somehow, it turns out that John made a difference. He'd never expected to – not really. Oh, he'd get angry with Sherlock and challenge his inhuman behaviour from time to time, but Sherlock always seemed to brush him off. And John had to admit that, for the detective, _not_ caring seemed to make a kind of cold-hearted sense. He'd seen time and again how well that great mind worked when unencumbered by sentiment. In fact, the one time that Sherlock had seemed to be off his game was with the Woman, Irene Adler – and look how that turned out.

And yet, here's Lestrade telling him that he has made Sherlock _feel_ something for someone else. If that someone had been the challenging, mysterious, intelligent, beautiful Irene - well, John wouldn't be surprised at all, but to know that it's _him_ – that _he_ has affected Sherlock's emotions...well, it's a heady feeling. He doesn't know the _exact_ nature of Sherlock's feelings for him, and he's not sure exactly how he feels about that, but it's something to think about another day.

But… _John Watson_ \- small, insignificant, average, jumper-wearing, tea-drinking… _ordinary_ John Watson. No wonder Lestrade looks so confused.

And then the depression descends again and the warmth is sucked away by cold reality. If Sherlock _really_ cares as much as Lestrade thinks he did, how could he have borne to keep John in the dark for three long years? Surely he would have found a way to get in touch? He certainly knows by now that John is aware of his trick…but nothing. No cryptic messages slipped to the doctor through his homeless patients – messages that would have brought him some meagre comfort. If Sherlock _does_ know, he certainly doesn't think it worth trying to establish contact with his 'only friend'. Perhaps John just isn't that important to him anymore.

Greg shakes himself out of his reverie, clearly uncomfortable with the topic of conversation. He mutters a little, and John has to strain to hear him again. "Anyway, I just had to say it. Sorry, not my business, anyway. Just didn't want you going on thinking you're the only one who suffers." How is it that John has never noticed that edge of bitterness in the DI's voice before?

He's suddenly deeply sorry for his anger. "Yeah, well." He frowns at the ground, feeling his equilibrium restoring itself. "Um, Greg… I was wondering, did you ever hear anything of Moriarty? Afterwards, I mean."

Greg shakes his head. "Nah, nothing. Not him, or 'Rich Brook'." John can almost hear the apostrophes around that name – the DI is making it as clear as he can that he certainly doesn't believe the false story planted by Kitty Riley, whatever he may have thought at the time.

"And there… there was nothing on the – that roof?" He hopes Lestrade understands without any further explanation; he doesn't feel capable of reliving that day once more.

He does, and his gaze softens. "Nothing – not a sign that anyone had even been there."

"What?" John's mind is racing. "What - not even his phone?"

"What do you mean? _What_ phone?" Lestrade sounds confused.

John stares at him. "Sherlock's phone. Before he jumped, he threw it down – I saw him. It's in the report – at least, I _think_ I mentioned it –"

"But, John, there _was_ no mobile on the rooftop. I saw the reports – nothing – no sign of anything. Are you sure he didn't throw it over the edge?"

John shakes his head firmly – there's no way he can forget any moment of that scene. "No. He threw it backwards – I definitely saw it. It was almost as if he _wanted_ it to be found."

The two men stare at each other.

"Guv?" The voice comes from behind the DI, making both men jump. "Think we're finished here, if that's OK?"

"What?" Lestrade tries to gather his thoughts. "Yeah, OK. Forensics got what they need?"

"They say they have for now."

"Yeah, well, block off this entire area, the street too. Let the Dean know the entire Uni's off bounds tomorrow. We'll come back in the morning." Lestrade clasps John's shoulder. "Can I give you a lift home?"

"Mmm? Yeah, thanks." John follows the DI past the now-tented scene. The team are packing up their gear, and an ambulance is backing into place to move the body to the nearest mortuary. Nothing more can be done tonight.

"Another busy day tomorrow." Lestrade groans his tiredness – it's nearly 3AM now, and he'll probably be expected to make his initial report on the latest murder in about six hours' time. John feels a little guilty about taking up his time.

"Greg, you sure it's no trouble? I can walk from here."

"Yeah, right, and probably get into more trouble, knowing you," Lestrade mutters, with a wry smile. "No, it's OK, John. You need your bed too, no doubt."

Ironically, John is feeling more awake now. It's as if being involved in a case has shaken him out of his self-pity. He feels useful again. "I've got a day off tomorrow, so I'll chase up some of the street artists and see what I can find out."

"Appreciate it."

They reach Greg's car. As John steps around to the passenger side, he has a sudden thought. "Um, Greg, have you ever considered using Mycroft's help? With the phone calls, I mean? Wouldn't he have some equipment – I don't know – something that might help you track the calls? Or some more CCTV images that you haven't seen?"

Greg dips his head a little as he gets in. "It hasn't come to that, yet." His voice is clipped.

John knows that Greg's no fan of Mycroft. He must have been really pissed off when he discovered Mycroft's involvement in the Moriarty case – he's clearly still smarting over the way the master criminal got to the jury to avoid imprisonment, and it can't help to know that Mycroft 'compromised' with Moriarty, even if it _was_ to protect national security. John thinks he understands. Greg feels humiliated – betrayed, even - by both Holmes' brothers, and he's less willing to forgive the older one who, after all, lacks Sherlock's rather idiosyncratic charm.

John also suspects that Greg feels incredibly guilty about Sherlock's death. He knows blokes like Greg – they're straightforward, honest, no one's fool. They hate subterfuge – won't countenance it in themselves or anyone else. In Greg's mind, Sherlock probably killed himself because he knew his friends didn't trust him… and Greg _does_ count himself as one of Sherlock's few friends. It's now clear from his words that he never really believed that Sherlock was guilty of all those crimes, but he didn't make it clear enough to the detective at the time – and then it was too late.

That's probably why he hasn't intervened in John's mildly illegal activities with the graffiti. It's a compromise.

Both men are silent during the short journey. There's an air of exhaustion in the air – and not just because of the late hour. They're both defeated, and they know it.

Greg pulls up at the corner of Dorset Street and Baker Street. "You OK here?"

"Yeah, thanks Greg." John gets out of the car and leans back in for a minute. "Can I have photos? Of the messages – at least one for each crime scene. The guy I'm thinking of might be able to recognise the style. Also," he adds, thinking fast, "what about anything on the victims? I was wondering whether there was any link to Moriarty. I need to look into their backgrounds."

"Well, I'll drop the photos round tomorrow. The victim files might be more difficult, but I'll see what I can do. Thanks, mate."

John shuts the door, and the DI waves and speeds off. Back to his more-or-less broken home. John feels a surge of relief for the comfort of 221B – even an eerily empty 221B that still feels _wrong_. At least he's not going to back to shouting or silent reproach from an estranged wife. He wonders briefly why Greg doesn't just divorce her and get on with his life.

He shakes his head at the mysteries of human relationships – and then checks himself with a laugh. Sometimes, it seems as if the longer he lives _without_ Sherlock, the more like the consulting detective he becomes.

As he walks up the deserted street towards his flat, he ducks briefly into a small alleyway. It's on this wall here that he wrote his first message, almost two and a half years ago, and he has a sudden desire to see it again.

The message is still there. The letters are clumsy and blurred together a little – he was unpractised in the use of a spray can back then – and it's a bit chipped by wear, but at least it's never been cleaned off, as some of them have.

He traces the letters with his fingers, feeling the rough brick scraping his fingertips. The minor sting to his skin is good – it chases away the exhaustion and helps his sleep-deprived brain work better.

As his finger reaches the last 's', he stops dead, staring at the symbol at the end.

The usual curving triangle, indicating a single flame. But it's not quite the same, and his heart starts beating faster, with either fear or hope, he's not sure which.

What's different is that someone has drawn a second, identical, flame, right next to his.


	4. Chapter 4

It doesn't take John more than a couple of days to discover that all his surviving messages have been decorated the same way. Just a single identical sign, right next to his. He always paints his messages in red, and the matching symbol is blue. It's even on the latest message at Barts, when he goes back to it just two days after painting it.

John fingers the symbol, frowning. Who would do this? His mysterious shadow? And why? Does the painter understand what the symbol means?

If the person meant merely to deface John's message, there's much easier ways of doing that. He tries to push a certain notion away, but it haunts him.

He eventually catches up with Raz at the skateboard park under the South Bank Centre, two days after the UCL murder. The weather has taken a turn for the better, and it's a calm, warm Thursday morning, enlivened by just the mildest of breezes. The Thames sparkles in the bright sunshine, and John takes a moment to lean on the rail, lifting his face to the sun's rays and closing his eyes against the glare. It's a rare perfect summer day in London and as the sun shines pink behind his lashes, he gets a sudden searing vision of Sherlock.

They'd been up all night and had finally run their criminal down – he'd been grappling with Sherlock on the precipice of Millennium Bridge while John tried to shout the man down. The two men had nearly gone over into the Thames before backup in the guise of Lestrade arrived just in the nick of time. John remembers standing between the river and the Tate Modern and watching Sherlock, pristine as ever in his suit and with the inevitable shock blanket loosely arranged across his shoulders, conversing with Greg. And then the detective had walked back towards John, along the promenade. As Lestrade had continued barking orders to his officers, Sherlock had leant on the rail next to his friend, giving John his usual wide, post-case grin. He then raised his pale face to the sun for a few moments, clearly enjoying its warmth.

John had found himself staring. Partly, it was delayed shock from the fight and his desperate fear that his friend would disappear into the Thames any minute; partly, it was surprise to see Sherlock so still. He'd only known the man for six months at that point, and he rarely saw Sherlock stop to appreciate the glories of nature. But also, the early morning sun had lit his features, and John had been fascinated by the way that the light gold drew out the faintest impression of freckles across the bridge of the detective's nose and the curve of his cheekbones…something he'd never seen before. But then he didn't often see Sherlock out of doors during the day; if he did, they were usually dashing to some crime scene.

John remembers standing at that rail, staring at Sherlock and considering all the aspects of his flatmate that he still didn't know – perhaps might never know. How had he grown up? Where? Was there some stately home somewhere in the bucolic Sussex countryside that had spawned the Holmes brothers, raised them, nurtured them? He'd had a sudden, rather wild, vision of a freckled curly-haired child scowling at his older brother during an altercation over an experiment - probably involving ants, a magnifying glass and something that Mycroft treasured – and had had to turn his head away to hide his smirk.

He'd never asked Sherlock about his childhood – Sherlock would have scoffed or made some off-hand comment about _dull_ , but there's no doubt that it would have been fascinating. More fascinating than John's own, somewhat suburban childhood, which consisted mainly of fighting with Harry when she nicked his Action Mans (which happened on a startlingly regular basis) and resuming the on-going controversial debate over who had broken the horse from Buckeroo (the only board game that John had regularly won).

And then Sherlock had stretched his spine and murmured something about breakfast and how to identify the best greasy spoon café south of the river by the bottom third of the door, and John had been shaken out of his reverie.

The memory reminds him that there's still so much he doesn't know about Sherlock Holmes.

He turns towards the skateboard park and grins at the sight of the teenage boys practising their stunts. John wonders how many of them should be in school – but, to be frank, it's not his problem.

"Yeah, I seen it," Raz responds before John can even voice his question. His eyes are on the skateboarding lads – John gets the impression that he might be teaching them some skills. "Just recent, though. Whoever it is, they only just started doing it."

"Are you sure?"

Raz shrugs. "I always notice yours cos I showed you how to do 'em. I would've noticed earlier if the bloke had always been adding the symbol. It's new – he's only been doing 'em the last week, ten days. I meant to tell you when I saw you next."

"Any idea who?" John asks.

Raz gives him a strange look. He seems to be about to say something, and then stops and shrugs. "Dunno for certain. Definitely amateur but good. Good at imitation. There's no hesitation and the lines always match yours exact. Can't tell nothing about style cos he's just imitating yours."

John accepts this. He's learnt by now that the young man knows everything there is to know about street art. He pulls out the photos. Lestrade has cropped them carefully so they don't show the body or give much away about the crime scene itself.

Raz looks through them with interest. He hesitates for a moment at the last one – the one taken at UCL.

"Any ideas?"

He shakes his head. "No, I don't know who did this. Not much to go on. Not a pro. Not artistic – just trying to make a point. Think it's a bloke. Very firm lines. Someone who likes giving orders."

"Someone military, maybe?"

Raz glances at him. "Yeah, maybe. There's one thing, though. I think they're all the same bloke except this last one." He indicates the UCL photo. "This is someone else."

John peers closely. "How can you be sure? None of them is exactly the same."

Raz points out some of the similarities in the earlier photos. "The sloping L. Each S is a bit bigger than the rest of the letters. And the horizontal line on the H overlaps. Yeah, these were all definitely done by the same person, but that one's someone else. He's tried to imitate the style, but he's not that good at it. Don't recognise it either…"

He frowns intently at the photo. John keeps quiet.

"It looks like… like the bloke can't write well…or perhaps he's foreign. Yeah, that's right," he nods, more confidently, "like he's not English."

"Not English," John repeats, staring at the photo. "But the others are?"

"Well he knows what he's writing anyway. This last one – he's copying something. Like he's copying a picture he don't understand, if you know what I mean."

Both men, one military, one not English. It's something.

John slides the photos back into their envelope. "Thanks, Raz, you've helped a lot."

"Yeah…um, Doc?" Raz is looking down at his shoes. He seems uncomfortable.

"What is it, mate?"

The young graffiti artist raises his head and looks John in the eye. "See…I heard rumours. About _him_ – you know? Mister Holmes."

"Yes?" John tries to look sympathetic and helpful, but his heart is beating wildly.

"I know – I know he died – I mean I saw it on the news and you were there an' all. An' I never seen him since, so he must be – right? No way _he_ could disappear for years. Not _him_."

"Yes. I mean, yes, I saw him fall." John manages to croak out the words.

"Yeah, I know. It's just…" Raz looks at his feet again. "Only…if I didn't know better, I'd say that them symbols – the ones on your messages, I mean – 'ad been painted by _him_."

John is silent for a moment. His heart is thumping so loudly, he's sure the other man must be able to hear it.

"What – what makes you think that?"

Raz pauses for a long moment before replying. "Well… it's the accuracy. He's amateur, cos the outline's a bit blurry, but he's gotta eye for the detail. You don't see that in amateurs – not normally. Never seen it in no one but _him_."

John notes the constant emphasis on _him_ and wonders, not for the first time, whether Sherlock is truly aware of the impact he has on the people he comes into contact with.

He eyes John again, steadily. "I ain't seen nothin', and no one's told me nothin'. An' I can see by your face that you won't neither. But I know what I saw."

John lets out a shuddering breath that he wasn't aware he was holding. He tucks the folder under his arm and, very aware of Raz's intent gaze, he gives him a nod and starts to step out of the shadow of the skateboarding area.

To this day, he can't say what exactly made him hesitate. Perhaps some remnant of his military training remains; all he knows is that he hears a scraping sound and freezes for just a second before a large slab of concrete crashes down onto the ground right in front of him. Right where he would have been standing if he hadn't hesitated.

Part of him is frozen, staring at the cracked slab. The other part is aware of a woman's startled scream and the sound of running footsteps…and a repetitive thrumming sound. It takes him what feels like hours but can only be a few seconds to realise that he's listening to his own heartbeat, thumping loud in his ear.

 _Thump…thump…thump…_ This tangible evidence of his own continuing existence seems to bring him back to his senses.

"Jeez, Doc, you OK? Lucky you wasn't standing there, eh?" Raz's voice sounds far away, despite the hand on his shoulder. "Doc? You sure you're OK?"

"Yes…I'm OK," he mutters, very conscious of the curious group of adolescent boys gathering around him and the equally concerned faces of the passers-by who have stopped to look. He draws a shuddering breath and makes a conscious effort to calm down his pulse.

He steps out cautiously and looks up at the terrace of the South Bank Centre above the underground park. There's a stack of concrete slabs up there, quite close to the edge, in a section cordoned off by builder's signs and a hazard tape. No one to be seen, of course.

A member of the British transport police hurries over. John recognises him vaguely from some past adventure involving Sherlock jumping into the Thames and requiring rescue. He doesn't think the man recognises him, though. He's too busy, looking around, scanning the crowd for injuries.

"Everyone OK in here? Anyone hurt?"

"No, we're all fine," John mutters, looking around; some of the kids are still lingering, while others have beat a sensible retreat at the sight of a uniform. "But I think you'd better clear this area. Just in case another slab should happen to fall down."

The officer gives him a sharp look, and John wonders whether he does recognise him after all. More likely he's confused by John's rather dry comment. It should be obvious to anyone that the slabs are far too heavy to fall without being moved.

* * *

Well, he's here at last.

He hasn't been back to the Yard since the immediate aftermath of the Fall. Occasionally, Lestrade has tried to coax him back, but he's never seen the point. He never came here without Sherlock, and even now he's not sure if he can face it alone.

He stands rather awkwardly in the reception, having asked for DI Lestrade. A couple of junior officers that he vaguely recognises pass through, and their conversation falters at the sight of him. Another young constable stares openly, then blushes and averts her face as he catches her eye.

"John! This is a surprise." Lestrade strides over, shaking his hand warmly – almost frantically. He's trying just a little too hard, John thinks. "Come on up."

They pass through reception and get into the lift, emerging on the sixth floor. The DI sweeps through the open-plan area that makes up the serious crime unit. John, hurrying behind, sees DI Dimmock in the distance – the young detective starts slightly and then gives John a cautious nod. The woman he is talking to turns her head quickly, and he gets a brief glimpse of Sally Donovan's shocked face as he follows Lestrade.

It does nothing to settle his nerves.

"So, I heard about this morning – saw the report," Lestrade comments, opening the door to his office and ushering John in.

"How come? I thought the police just assumed it was an accident."

Lestrade gives him a wry smile. "They might've given that impression to _you_ , but they're not stupid. That building site was closed today and you know as well as I do that the slab wouldn't have come down without help." His face turns serious. "It was aimed at _you_ , John – and it was a bit more than a warning. You wouldn't have walked away from that 'accident'."

The DI isn't telling John anything he didn't already know, but he's steadfastly trying not to think of the ramifications.

He shrugs and tries deflection. "What's with all the hard looks out there? I thought you'd cleared Sherlock's name at last."

"Well, yeah, but…" Greg sounds a little awkward. "You know how it is."

" _No_ , I don't," John replies, quietly.

Greg pushes his hand through his greying hair. "Look, John, you got to understand. We know _now_ that we made a mistake…but it caused a lot of trouble here. Lots of overtime going through the files, lots of people tearing out their hair. And what do we find? That he's absolutely clean. Nothing sticks. But… he _could_ 've done it – y'know? All that strutting around, making us look like idiots. And he never seemed to care much about the victims. People don't forgive that kind of thing."

"So let me get this right." John's voice is dangerously level. "You're blaming Sherlock for being _innocent_ of the crimes that _you_ blamed him for?"

"I wouldn't put it quite like that." Greg sits down behind his desk, straightening some files to avoid looking up at the doctor.

John gives a disbelieving laugh. "Why am I even here?" he mutters, turning back towards the door.

"Oh, for _Christ's sake_ , just sit down!" Greg snaps.

John turns back, strides across the room and leans close to Greg's face, his own red with anger. "Why the _hell_ should I? I'm only here because you asked me to help. I didn't ask to get involved. You don't see me 'strutting around', do you? And even if he _did_ have a bit of an attitude, don't you think he had a right to? All those crimes you accused him of committing – how many would you have solved if he hadn't been around?"

"Yeah, yeah, _OK_ ," Greg puts his hand up. "We already had this conversation, John. You're preaching to the converted. It's just that…don't expect the rest of them to be all that friendly right now. Yeah, look, I _know_ …but try to see it from their point of view for a change, why don't you? David Anderson's a highly-trained forensic pathologist – do you think he actually _enjoyed_ being described as a moron every time Sherlock turned up at a scene? Sherlock accused him of being a waste of space because he wasn't at _his_ level, but who _was_? When he wasn't around, Dave _was_ – and still _is_ – pretty good at his job. If Sherlock hadn't been too busy slagging him off, he might have seen that. The really stupid thing is, they could've worked together OK if they'd only tried to compromise."

John opens his mouth, but Lestrade doesn't give him a chance to speak. "And what about Sally Donovan? Yeah, I know she can be difficult, but what he said to her sometimes was _unforgiveable_. We Yarders, we're not angels, but we've always been a team, and there's a code here - we'd never _dream_ of talking about each other's private lives at a scene. We work long hours, we don't spend enough time with our wives and families…and things happen between people. But the point _is_ , it's off-topic, y'know? Then along comes Mister Smartarse and suddenly a hard-working, very professional police officer has to stand there and take it while she's described as a marriage-wrecking slut."

"But, the other night, you said you kept inviting him back, you said –"

"Yeah, I did, and I meant it." Greg gives a short, bitter laugh. "But even _I_ didn't need to have my private life discussed at a party in front of strangers. You think I didn't _know_ what my wife was up to? We were _trying_ to get through it, but he has to go and stick his nose in and go on and on about the bloke she's been sleeping with...and that was the final straw for me. Look, I liked Sherlock, but that's just _me_ – and I was never even sure he liked me back. To everyone else here, he was a trouble-maker – rude to the point of offensiveness, impatient, impossible to understand. He got results but he never bothered to explain himself in a way that anyone could understand. It seemed like…well, magic. They never saw the hard work that went on behind it – all they saw was a smug, upper-class bastard who got lucky with his guesses."

He leans back, giving John a hard look. "I know it's tough for you to come back here. Tough for you – and tough for them too, believe it or not. They never had anything against you _personally_ , and they feel guilty. But, my point is, if you want to carry on being all pissed off and superior and up your own arse about what we did, because you were right and we were wrong… then you might as well just bugger off now. But if you _really_ want to help us catch a vicious killer – and you'd have _my_ gratitude at the very least, if you _did_ – then sit down, and show me what you got."

There is a moment's tense silence as John stares at him in disbelief. He's aware that his mouth is opening and closing in an unattractive manner.

Then, much to his own amazement, he laughs out loud…and keeps on laughing, with an edge of slight hysteria.

More than anything, it's the language that gets him. In three years, no one's had the nerve to describe him as 'being up his own arse' – and, in a bizarre way, John finds he rather likes it. People have been tiptoeing around him, afraid of upsetting him, for far too long. He's missed Sherlock's dismissive put-downs too much.

Lestrade leans forward, looking a little concerned at John's hysteria and clearly wondering if he's gone too far. John waves a hand at him dismissively as he struggles to get himself under control, wiping the tears from his eyes.

"Yeah, OK then." Finally calm, he sits down and throws the photos across the desk. "My source says he doesn't recognise the work, but he's pretty sure the last one was done by someone else. And they're both men and both amateurs. One possibly military and the other – the last one – probably not English-speaking."

Greg frowns. "Not much to go on, but… is he sure about the last one?"

John nods. "He knows his stuff. So…where does that leave you? Any chance the last one could be a copy-cat killer? If we assume that the messenger and the killer are one and the same? If they're _not_ the same person, and if this is some weirdo who's just turning up at the scene right after the killing to write the message, it's hardly likely that there's more than one of them – is it?"

"Yeah, well we got a profile of the killer now." Lestrade hands him a file. "Interpol came up with it – and a suspect. Serbian –" he shares a meaningful glance with John, " – ex-army, a mercenary. Interpol have been after him for years. The style matches him. He's a big bloke and knows how to kill with his bare hands - and he does it quickly too, no messing around. No particular affiliation – he'll work for whoever'll pay him."

John opens the file and sees a photo and a few pages of information. Ratko Jovanovic. Fairly common name in Serbia. The details are sketchy, but his military service isn't particularly controversial. It looks as if he served his time without any particular distinction but with no misconduct either, and was discharged after 14 years. Almost certainly another of the many discharged soldiers who wasn't able to adjust to civilian life with his particular skillset and, as a result, drifted into the crime world.

Moriarty likes men like Jovanovic – they will just get on with killing whoever he wants them to. He doesn't use bare-handed killers very often though – too messy and intimate. He tends to rely on explosives and highly-skilled snipers - the big, noticeable gestures. Could he be involved here? He's been far too quiet over the last three years. Not for the first time, John wonders if the self-styled consulting criminal is still alive.

"OK, well that might fit in with the last message. Maybe the other messages were done by whoever's hiring him. I take it there's no links between him and the victims? Definitely a paid hitman?" When Greg nods, he goes on, "And can I see their files?"

"Sure." Greg pushes a pile towards him. "You can't take them away though." He frowns. "I'm not sure that Jovanovic, if this _is_ him, would be likely to write that message. As far as we can tell, he wouldn't be likely to know anything about Sherlock Holmes."

"But he might be hired to do it, though? By someone like Moriarty?" John frowns, thinking. "Perhaps he was told to write it – but why this time and not before? Because the usual writer couldn't be there for some reason?"

"Maybe, but why write it at all? If this _is_ Moriarty, who's he aiming the message at? He must know Sherlock's dead."

 _Does he know that Sherlock isn't dead_? John wonders, fearing the possible answer to that question. _And if not him, then who?_

Greg gives him a sharp look. "Do you think he's aiming it at _you_? Trying to get at you in some way? Maybe some connection to that 'message' you got this morning?"

To that, there's no answer.

John sighs, placing his hand over the first of the files. He hesitates, avoiding Lestrade's eyes. "Um, Greg?"

"Mmm?" Lestrade sounds distracted; he's already moved onto another of the many reports scattered across his desk.

"What you said… I mean… he – Sherlock - he _did_. Like you, I mean. He – he never showed it very well, but he _did_ like you."

There's a momentary silence, while John keeps looking down at the fingers of his left hand. And then Lestrade stands up and walks out of the room without a word.

* * *

Four hours later, John's rubbing his neck as he wearily lays aside the last file and closes his notebook. He's no researcher, and he doesn't really know if he's even looking at the right things. He's relying purely on memories of helping Sherlock out in similar cases.

He knows the victims were members of gangs running drugs into the UK from South America, the Caribbean and Thailand, women and children from African countries and Eastern Europe, men from the Far East, and guns and explosives from pretty much anywhere. He can't find links between any of the individual gangs. The only common denominator is that New Scotland Yard had been onto them, and trying to get hard evidence to make arrests…and that the murdered men had been identified as potential informants.

He can't find any links back to Moriarty, but that doesn't surprise him much. The criminal mastermind would have been far too clever to allow his name to be linked to such lowlifes. Once more, he feels the need for Sherlock's clever brain – if there was even the slightest trace back to his arch-nemesis, he'd find it.

Sherlock wouldn't need to spend hours poring laboriously over files, copying anything that looks vaguely useful. As it is, John can't spend any more time on this – he's taken time off from work, but he's got his regular slot at the homeless clinic tonight.

He pushes his chair back and stands up slowly, rolling his shoulders to try to reduce the stiffness. It's late afternoon, he's just got time to grab a coffee and sandwich on the way to the clinic –.

Lestrade's door opens, and he looks round, fully expecting to see the DI, who's been in a meeting all afternoon. However, it's someone far less welcome, and he feels his smile evaporate.

Sally Donovan shuts the door behind her and leans against it, arms folded. John recognises this as a defensive gesture rather than a hostile one, but it still makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle.

"Sally." He pushes the pile of files back across to Lestrade's side of the desk and grabs his jacket.

"Why are you back – _now_?"

"Why do you care – _now_?" He pulls on his jacket and zips it up, eyeing her the entire time. His usual male reaction kicks in automatically, as his eyes flicker down her slim body and back up to her clever pretty face.

It's ironic, really. She's an attractive young woman. Certainly the most beautiful cop he's ever encountered, and _possibly_ one of the most beautiful women – on three continents. And she's intelligent and quite witty when she chooses to be. Certainly wasted on a married man. If they'd met at a pub, he'd have tried to chat her up. They might've got to know each other, maybe had dinner, gone to the cinema. It might have worked…except for Sherlock. Maybe Sally would've ended up tied to that chair in front of a loaded bow, instead of poor Sarah. His lips twitch at the thought.

But, Sherlock. Always Sherlock. Even if he _had_ met Sally in other circumstances, it wouldn't have worked out. Even if she hadn't already known Sherlock, she'd have been put off by the detective's rude, unsociable and, at times, frankly offensive behaviour, just as his other girlfriends had been. The detective hadn't done much for John's sex life during the time they'd lived together…which made it all the stranger that John hadn't bothered to indulge since he'd had Baker Street to himself.

But, in any case, she _had_ known Sherlock and his earliest and most vivid memory of Sally Donovan was the sulky bad-tempered policewoman at the police tape who had thrown Sherlock a look of pure hatred as she hissed the word 'freak' at him. The image had stuck and John had found it hard to be civil to Donovan in all their future interactions.

He approaches her slowly. "Care to get out of my way?"

He's speaking lightly, but the unspoken threat is there, not least in the way his hands fist automatically at his sides. She narrows her eyes and shifts slightly, as if to ward off a blow.

He grins, but there's no humour in it. "Oh, _relax_ , Sally. I don't go in for hitting women."

"So you _would_ if I was a man?"

He's standing right in front of her now, close enough to feel her hot breath on his face. Neither of them is prepared to back down.

"Wouldn't _you_? If I had accused your friend of numerous crimes that he didn't commit on the flimsiest of evidence, simply because I didn't like him? Accusations that led directly to him throwing himself off a very high building?" The last sentence is pretty cruel of him, since he now knows that Sally's empty accusations had nothing to do with it, but he enjoys watching her flinch nonetheless.

"At the time it seemed –" she begins, but he holds up a hand to stop her.

"Don't. Just _don't_."

She looks at him, her eyes wide. He waits, with a patience that surprises him. Sally has always been easy to predict. And, sure enough…

"It was never about _you_ , John," she bursts out, suddenly.

He puts his face very close to her and hisses, " _Yes_. It _was_. When you set out to destroy Sherlock, you made it personal for me too."

She shakes her head. "Don't you understand? It _did_ look odd. What kind of police officer would I be if I just let it go? You were there – _you_ saw how that little girl reacted to him. What would _you_ have done?"

He shakes his head, slowly. "That's not quite the whole truth, is it? If it had been _me_ that the girl reacted to, you'd have given me the benefit of the doubt – or you'd at least have considered all the evidence before coming to a decision. But because it was _him_ , it gave you the ammunition you'd been after for _years_." His voice drips contempt. "Call yourself a professional police officer? _How dare you_."

The side of her mouth is twitching slightly. "He should have let himself be taken," she mutters, turning her face away. "At least he'd have been safe, and we could have sorted this out -"

He sighs, relenting slightly. She's really not worth this. "Oh, just _listen_ to yourself, Sally! Don't you _get_ it yet? His death was _nothing_ to do with you, or Lestrade, or the press. It was Moriarty who pushed him off that building."

She grimaces. "If you hadn't hit the Commissioner –"

"Oh, is that what this is about? It's my fault that he ran away to his death? Is that what you're now saying?" He looks at her intently, letting her see the amused pity in his eyes. "Do you think that was an accident - do you _really_ think I'd just stand by and let you arrest him?"

He watches her eyes widen before he goes on, slowly and very deliberately. "The Commissioner was just an excuse – hitting him gave me my opportunity. I was _never_ going to just sit in that flat and let it happen. Remember, I was a soldier once. And soldiers never abandon their comrades...unlike ambitious detective sergeants hoping to make the grade by bringing down their superior officers."

He sees the anger flare in her eyes – anger and something else…hurt? "What kind of person do you think I am?"

"I don't know, Sally – what kind of person _are_ you?"

She's silent, watching him with wide eyes as he looks her up and down, deliberately slowly.

"You know the biggest irony? A few hours ago, Greg sat here at this desk and defended you. Defended your reputation against Sherlock's jibes, defended your decisions, defended your professionalism – even your loyalty to the team. _You_ – you, Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan, who _must_ have known that drawing attention to Sherlock's work with your team would put his career at risk. He _trusts_ you."

She slumps back against the door, unshed tears sparkling in her angry dark eyes. She looks defeated, diminished in some way. "I didn't… this wasn't… I would _never_ betray the guv."

"Wouldn't you?" he's watching her carefully, noting the single tear that drips silently down her cheek. "Well, perhaps you wouldn't, as it goes. Perhaps your hatred of Sherlock Holmes has skewered your motivations. Ever thought of that?"

She looks up at him, and he sees the agony in her eyes. "I think about it every night, John. _Believe me_."

And for a moment, he does. Her confessed whisper hangs in the silence before them and, once more, grief chokes his throat. Then his heart hardens again.

"As far as I'm concerned, Greg's far better off with you taken out of his team. He may view it as a punishment, in lieu of actual demotion. I see it as a reward."

He notes the pain in her face as she stares at him. _Job done, Watson_.

"Now, I _really_ recommend that you get out of my way."


	5. Chapter 5

It's not really that much of a surprise when, the next day, a black unmarked car pulls up at the pavement just as John is leaving the surgery in the early evening. After all, Mycroft has intervened before whenever John's life has got more…interesting.

John's heart sinks. It's a Friday evening at the height of the chickenpox season and it's been a bloody long day at the surgery, full of spotty kids with very little wrong with them and over-worried parents. He's _really_ looking forward to a quiet cup of tea at home and an evening with nothing to do, apart from going through his notes on the victims, looking for connections.

Still. No point in putting off the inevitable. He's never actually been man-handled into a meeting by anonymous toughs, but it's not beyond the realms of possibility. He's under no illusion as to the true nature of Mycroft's power.

Giving a loud, deliberately put-upon sigh, he walks over to the car, opens the door and gets in, giving a resigned nod to possibly-Anthea. She doesn't seem to have changed at all in the last three years – same hair, same sharp suit, same complete lack of surprise at anything that life throws at her. Just an updated smartphone which, as usual, takes up the entirety of her attention.

He doesn't even bother to attempt striking up a conversation during their short journey; he's too busy trying to sort out his emotions and prepare himself for the meeting ahead of him.

He hasn't seen Mycroft since the burial. Even the name can conjure up an image of a smug, self-satisfied bureaucrat and – worse – a traitor, and it usually provokes a flare of suppressed anger that he tries to keep buried deep in his subconscious. Normally, he tries very hard _not_ to think of Sherlock's older brother. The man represents a negative association that he cannot – _will not_ – deal with, not when he has so many other concerns.

Rather to his surprise, he's taken to the Diogenes Club. Mycroft wants a public meeting, then. No lurking in underground car parks or unused power stations today.

John sets his jaw in preparation as he marches through the silent reading room to one of the many panelled doors at the far end. He recognises Mycroft's private office even before his silent guide opens the door. Despite his determination not to be cowed by the man, he finds himself hesitating in the doorway, much as he used to before The Fall. A meeting with the power behind the British government has never been the easiest of experiences.

"Ah, Doctor Watson, how nice to see you."

Mycroft is standing by the desk in his bespoke suit, with the usual enigmatic smile. The man doesn't seem to have aged much, although there's a new tightness about his mouth that John doesn't remember, and the doctor in him does the usual quick assessment and notes that the man has lost a little weight. It's hard to tell, really – impossible to imagine Mycroft wearing a suit that doesn't fit him perfectly. He probably gets a new one each time he puts on or sheds a pound or two.

"Mycroft." He tries to make his voice as neutral as possible.

The older Holmes brother raises his eyebrow very slightly. " _Do_ please take a seat. I'm sure you would appreciate the cup of tea that you were clearly on your way home to drink."

Rather to his surprise, John finds he has to bite inside his cheek to keep from grinning like a complete idiot. Intentional or not, Mycroft's familiar percipience reminds him acutely of the younger Holmes - and God, how he's _missed_ those small deductions and predictions of his behaviour that used to irritate him so much at the time.

He keeps his face straight, hoping that Mycroft hasn't noticed. However, as he takes the seat indicated and accepts the fancy cup and saucer offered to him by a silent minion, he fancies that there's a muscle twitching in the other man's cheek, almost in response. He wonders, as he always does, whether Mycroft ever makes a gesture or speaks a word that _isn't_ loaded with meaning.

The 'British government' sits behind his desk with his usual languid grace and sips delicately at his own cup, sighing with a relief that doesn't _seem_ feigned.

"Forgive me, John. It's been an unusually long day, even by my standards. The situation in Syria…" his voice fades away and he gives John a gentle, strangely approving smile. "But that is my job, and of limited interest to you, and no doubt you too have had a trying day with all the sickly infants that fall to your lot."

Despite his instinctive hostility, John is struck afresh by the strange charm of the man. He's not sure whether it's because the tilt of Mycroft's head and the delicate way he folds his hands remind him in some small way of Sherlock, or whether it's the case that Mycroft himself possesses that same, inexplicable charisma. Either way, John is shocked to find himself having to fight against an unexpected sympathy for the man.

This is not how it's supposed to go. This is the man whose duplicity – whose _betrayal_ – gave Moriarty the ammunition to bring his younger brother down.

John gulps his tea silently, keeping his eyes on Mycroft and wishing he had Sherlock's insight. Does the man _know_ his brother is alive?

He aches to talk to someone about his knowledge. The last three years have been an incredible strain, having to watch everything he says; making sure he always sticks to the past tense when talking about Sherlock. He desperately wants it to end. If Mycroft gave even the smallest of signs that he _knew_ … then, God, the relief would be so great that John would forgive him on the spot.

Instead, all he can do is sit in his chair, sip his tea and assume his usual persona. Small, unimportant, insignificant – _ignorant_ \- John Watson, just trying to move on with his life after his friend's dramatic suicide. It's an image that he's cultivated over the last three years as a form of self-defence. Before Sherlock's death, he'd occasionally felt a bit bitter about his lack of height and rather mundane appearance, and the fact that he often appeared to be invisible next to his friend. Nowadays, it's a positive benefit – who'd suspect harmless old John Watson of having any secrets?

As Mycroft looks at him, he gets the strong impression that the man saw through this image the very moment he walked through the door – and possibly before – but he doesn't _know_. He can't take the risk.

There's a tension about Mycroft. He's holding his shoulders rather more tightly than he used to, despite his apparently relaxed pose. It occurs to John that this can't be easy for him either.

The last time the two of them had met, they'd parted in silent hostility, hidden behind a thin veneer of cold politeness. There had been an awareness (on John's part, at least) of a mutual, but separate, grief and an unspoken understanding that neither could be of comfort to the other man. Quite simply put, they had no common ground. It was far, _far_ better to avoid one another.

This perception is reinforced when Mycroft's polite smile falters very slightly. "I'm afraid I am finding this a little…strange. Seeing you here, John, reminds me of… so many things…"

There's an air of regret about the words. Mycroft looks away suddenly, fidgeting with his folded hands, and a startling revelation comes to John.

Mycroft is lonely.

What must it be _like_ to be Mycroft Holmes, the man behind the British government? _The most dangerous man you will ever meet_ , as Sherlock once described him. Worlds away from his younger brother, who has always hurtled through a life filled with an astonishing level of chaos for man with such an organised and logical mind.

Not for Mycroft the midnight dashes across London and hair-brained pursuits of dangerous criminals. Not for Mycroft the eschewing of sleep and regular meals in favour of 'the Game'; the late-night takeaways after a solved case; the messy experiments; the domestic arguments about who finished off the milk and didn't replace it. No, Mycroft must plan his days with military precision – when he will sleep and eat, what he will wear, where he will be, who he will meet, what he will say – and _not_ say – each and every moment of his life. No room for unpredictability.

How did the adult Mycroft – this alien creature - come into creation? How did he _form_? Who raised him, developed him and sent him hurtling towards his strange destiny? At what stage did a phenomenally bright child become the most powerful man in the country? And why _him_ \- and not Sherlock?

At what point did Mycroft decide that caring was not an advantage? Has anyone – _anyone at all_ , male or female – ever brushed that lock of hair off his forehand or run a gentle finger down his cheek…or leaned in to press a kiss to those thin lips? Does Mycroft ever feel the lack of such casual affection…or such companionship?

The man sitting opposite him shifts abruptly, and the illusion of loneliness suddenly evaporates. Mycroft is, once again, the cold-eyed bureaucrat affecting a persona of urbane civility. John wonders whether the previous pose was deliberate – perhaps intended to elicit sympathy? Is Mycroft _really_ so inhuman that he needs to play-act at emotions?

"Well, you are no doubt wondering why I have invited you here." They both ignore the obvious lack of an actual 'invitation'.

"I _had_ wondered why, after all this time," John admits, quietly.

Mycroft leans back, steepling his fingers in front of his chin, and observes the doctor. "You had rather a lucky escape yesterday morning, did you not?"

John huffs out a dry laugh. "And I suppose you're going to tell me who did it?"

Mycroft hesitates just a fraction. "I'm sorry, John, but I don't know."

"Really?" He can't help it; he just can't keep the scepticism out his voice. However, Mycroft looks genuinely regretful. In fact, he looks decidedly pained not to know all the facts.

"I have, of course, investigated the matter, and I suspect that it may have been an… associate of James Moriarty, but I am afraid that I do not know for certain."

"Not Moriarty himself, then?"

Again, John is aware of that fractional hesitation. He senses that Mycroft is being very careful with his words.

"James Moriarty is dead, John. He has been dead for just over three years."

John draws a shuddering breath. He's wondered, of course he's wondered. Moriarty had been too quiet – he's convinced he would have wanted to goad him after Sherlock's death, but there's been nothing. Silence. And now he knows why.

"Are you sure?"

Mycroft meets John's eyes unflinchingly. "Absolutely. I identified the body myself."

"How?" It comes out as a croak. He's not sure he wants to know – did Sherlock finally kill him? And yet… he needs the closure.

The grey-green-blue eyes - _dear God, so like Sherlock_ – are still on him. "Suicide. He shot himself. Not a trace of doubt."

Mycroft's voice seems to fade away. His image blurs in front of John's face and he feels the blood rushing into his ears. He lifts a shaky hand to his cheek and is surprised to find wetness – _tears_?

It's relief, sheer relief that immobilizes him in his seat, but something else too. The intense agony of that day rushes back into his consciousness with an almost physical force, threatening to unman him.

_Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock… was all this for nothing? Did you know Moriarty was dead when you jumped? Why – dear Christ, please, why did you have to do this? Will I ever know?_

"…John? John? Are you well?" Mycroft's voice seeps back into his consciousness; the quiet, mannered tones sounding almost agitated.

Awareness of his location floods back into John's mind. _Not here – not now_. He has to process this new information – he needs to understand where it leaves him and Sherlock - but in the sanctity of Baker Street. Not _here_ , where he feels surrounded by enemies.

Rather self-consciously, he wipes the tears from his face and sits up straighter. To his surprise, Mycroft has refilled his cup and is stood over him, holding it out. The shock of this unlikely image helps to dispel his daze.

"Thanks," he mutters, gulping fiercely at the still scalding liquid. The burn of it down his throat helps him to pull himself together. "I'm sorry, it's just a surprise. I suppose I've been looking over my shoulder all this time without even realising it."

"I am sorry, John." Mycroft moves back to his desk and sits down, his face serious. "I should, perhaps, have guessed that you might have had some concerns about his continuing presence in your life. I wanted to tell you but…" His voice fades away, leaving John to understand that there were _reasons_ why he didn't. There are always _reasons_.

"Do you…" he clears his throat and tries again. "Do you think Sherlock knew he – Moriarty – was dead before he…"

He can't complete that sentence, but Mycroft clearly understands the meaning. "That, I suspect, we may never know." There's a finality to the words, a sense of underlining them to indicate the man's intention to move on to other matters.

 _So he doesn't know that Sherlock is alive… or else he thinks that I don't know…_ John experiences the usual sense of helplessness that he always associates with Mycroft. He doesn't belong in this world of secrets, and spies, and double-meaning.

Mycroft leans forward, steepling his fingers again. "I wish I could tell you that his death has made your life safer, but I fear you are as much at risk as ever, John. I can provide minders, surveillance…"

"No." John sits up more firmly. That's the last thing he needs, someone _else_ watching his every move.

Mycroft nods, looking down at a bulging file in front of him. It's the response he had expected. "I can understand that. But…my brother was correct in his description of James Moriarty. The man was not just a man. He was a spider – the centre of a web of corruption and violent crime that spanned – and still spans – many countries. There is hardly a crime syndicate or a terrorist organisation in the world that has no former connection with my brother's nemesis. And these individuals do not appreciate his death…not least because it appears to have had considerable ramifications for the success of their endeavours."

"What ramifications?"

Mycroft opens the file and flicks through a few pages, although John is sure that this is only for show. He has no doubt that the man in front of him has memorised every word. "It would appear that certain key figures and networks have been under attack for some time now. Bodies have turned up. In some cases, the cause of death – accident, murder or suicide – is not determined. And the demise of these individuals has had severe consequences for certain criminal organisations. Additionally, anonymous evidence has been e-mailed to police departments in China, Argentina, Italy, Australia, the United States of America – several other countries. Evidence that has allowed charges to be brought against previously untouchable individuals. In some cases, powerful, highly-placed figures." He gives John a meaningful look.

"Does – do they – does anyone know who is doing this?" John tries to keep his voice light. He's sure Mycroft must be able to hear his heart beating so fast it threatens to burst out of his chest.

A long, expectant moment of silence hangs between them before Mycroft finally sighs, closing the file. "No. We have no idea who can be behind this."

He gives John another of his all-seeing gazes, and the doctor finds himself squirming slightly.

"So? I mean, that's good – isn't it? That these people are being brought to justice?"

The brows draw downwards in mock disappointment. "I think you know that it is _not_ quite that simple, John."

"I'm still not sure what all of this is to do with me."

The other man folds his hands under his chin again. "Let me put it this away. Among certain… parties… there is a perception that my brother may have been responsible for Moriarty's death. There is a commonly-held view that Sherlock shot him before jumping off that roof."

"On what proof?" John's eyes narrow. "Mycroft, where was Moriarty's body found? Was he – was he on that roof? With Sherlock, I mean?"

Those eyes of indeterminate colour turn fractionally colder. "I apologise, John, but I cannot reveal that information."

John's eyes narrow at his opponent in this verbal battle. A battle that he rarely wins, but it doesn't stop him from trying.

"What about his _phone_? Mycroft, do you have Sherlock's phone?" It's a quiet but insistent question.

And it's no different this time. Without hesitation, Mycroft looks directly back into his eyes. "I do not have it, and have _absolutely_ no idea where it can be."

And that's that. John experiences the usual frustration of not being able to ascertain whether the man is telling him the truth. He wonders, quite suddenly, what truth actually _means_ to a man like Mycroft. Is it revocable? Can Mycroft actually _believe_ that a lie is the absolute truth when he needs to?

"To return to my point," Mycroft's dismissal of the topic is quite clear. "Sherlock is being blamed for Moriarty's downfall – and, by extension, the downfall of a large number of somewhat disagreeable gentlemen – and ladies, of course."

He smiles briefly, but his face turns serious once more. John senses genuine concern as he leans towards the doctor. "In the absence of my brother, their attentions are turning towards his former colleague, friend and – forgive me, John – _presumed_ lover. Some are looking for revenge, some for a bargaining chip. And, trust me when I say that you really do _not_ wish to encourage such attention. Some of these individuals make James Moriarty appear almost civilised."

"Well, they'll have to try a little harder than they did yesterday." John feels almost bullish; the RAMC officer coming to the fore again. _Just let them try_ … He feels the thrill of exhilaration go through him – the adrenaline of danger, of the chase…

Mycroft raises a hand as if to cut through his guest's thought processes. "Tell me, John, are you _at all_ aware that there have been at least five identified attempts on your life during the last three years?" His voice is clipped. No urbanity now – no pretence.

"Attempts? What do you mean?"

Mycroft smiles at him, and there's no humour in it. "Of course you are not. My people really _are_ that good. Did you suppose that I have left you _entirely_ alone since Sherlock's death? You have been followed – _looked after_ , you might say – since the moment he fell from that building."

John leans forward, bristling despite the revelation that has genuinely stunned him. "And without my consent, as usual. Why should I believe you? How could I not know about these 'attempts'?"

"I repeat… my people _are_ that good."

John swallows; a memory returns of a struggle by the dark canal. "Perhaps I'm better at defending myself than you think?"

Mycroft waves his hand again, casually. "Oh, that man never intended to kill you – not _you_ , at any rate. The young woman may not have been so lucky. But he clearly had instructions not to kill you, so once he recognised who you were, he stepped back. You may rest assured that, if he _had_ thrown your body into the water, the individual that was following you that night would have pulled you out and resuscitated you. And yet…" Mycroft's voice turns dreamy. "And yet, my agent's intervention was not required. I wonder why?"

"Wait a minute." John thinks quickly. "Was I being followed four nights ago? Between Barts and UCL, around two in the morning? I saw someone, or at least I _think_ I did."

"The individual you saw was not my agent."

"Do you know who it was? Not one of Moriarty's ex-agents – I'm sure of that."

Mycroft nods and gives John another of those strangely approving smiles. "Possibly not. He has some other motivation, as yet undetermined. You should not assume that it is _necessarily_ a benign one."

John frowns, trying to visualise that shadowy figure. "I feel I should know him, but I can't quite remember… Years ago, not here… A friend, though, not an enemy."

"Is that so?" John looks up to see Mycroft observing him with interest. "That may be the case, but remember that your life has changed considerably over the last five years. Old friends may have different motivations these days."

"You mean because of my association with Sherlock." It's not a question. John puts his cup aside as he leans forward to emphasise his point. "Back then, the first time we met, you were trying to warn me off, weren't you? Trying to stop me getting involved with Sherlock. You _knew_ I wouldn't accept your offer. You had my files – you knew all about my limp and my hand tremor – do you expect me to believe that you didn't already know that I'd _never_ take your money?"

The older Holmes' brother smiles, not taking his eyes off John.

"So…" John is thinking quickly, "your motivation _wasn't_ to pay me to spy on your brother. And you surely knew that I couldn't be scared away… You really _were_ trying to warn me to keep away, weren't you?"

It's funny that such a simple fact should be such a revelation.

"But, I still don't understand. Why should you have cared back then? What difference would it have made if something _had_ happened to a crippled ex-army doctor that you didn't even know?" John shakes his head, trying to clear his way through the myriad facts. "See, I always thought you were worried about _Sherlock_ – thinking that _I_ might endanger _him;_ slow him down or compromise him in some way. But, all along, it was _me_."

Mycroft hesitates, looking down at the files on his desk. John sees his hand rest gently on a thin file for a fraction of a moment before moving away again. There's an internal debate going on in the man's mind.

He laughs suddenly, puncturing the tense silence. "It _is_ funny, is it not? I do see your problem, John. You are suspicious of my motivations – and why should you not be? Our first meeting was not exactly conducive to friendship. As far as you are concerned, I am an interfering presence. My very existence is an offence to my brother. Possibly you even consider me dangerous. You fear me, although you try to hide it. Your best friend _despised_ me, his own brother."

Mycroft stands up suddenly and begins to pace – and John sees his younger brother again. It's almost as if, now that Sherlock is gone, Mycroft no longer feels the need to deliberately distance himself from inherited mannerisms.

"Do you know the _real_ reason why Sherlock could barely bring himself to pronounce my name? No, of course you do not –he would never have revealed that much of his past. Irrelevant, unimportant, _dull_ , he would say. Perhaps, if I could… but no," he shakes his head. "It is not _my_ tale to tell. Suffice it to say that I had some… influence… in Sherlock's childhood that he resented. He carried that resentment into adulthood… and here we are."

He stops, turns that bright gaze onto John. "Here _we_ are, quite unable to communicate _honestly_." John winces, but Mycroft carries on as if he hasn't noticed. "You fear me, you are angry with me – and rightly so. You blame me for Sherlock's death."

"I don't –"

"You _do_. And rightly." Mycroft's face grows distant, the lines more pronounced. He looks _old_.

"I know what I am responsible for. I asked you to… on that occasion, I wished you to convey my sincerest apologies. I do not know if you had an opportunity… but perhaps it does not matter… now."

He looks at John again. "You have an opinion of me, formed of my brother's prejudice, your lack of understanding of my…role, and your own anger over what happened. I do not seek to defend my actions back then, but it's clear that, as a result, you will not – _cannot_ – trust me.

"And yet…" The man looks deeply troubled. "Can it be possible that you are genuinely unable to accept that I simply… do not wish you to come to harm? And have never done so? "

John looks away, uncomfortably.

"Five years ago, you were a name on a file. Just a man…and yet, no, not _just_ a man, a decorated military hero, a skilled doctor, an able man. Do you know that you were once considered for possible recruitment to the Service? Considered and rejected – by me? Oh, not because of any lack of skill on your part, but quite simply because I felt that you had already done enough for this country. I felt that you had _had_ enough."

He turns away, beginning to pace again. "Then what do I discover? This man, this Doctor John Watson, has been seen associating with my brother. My unreliable, unstable, brilliant but dangerous younger brother. Not just associating with him, but clearly planning to move in with him. Naturally, I was concerned – not for my idiot brother, but for a decorated, invalided war hero with post-traumatic stress disorder."

He looks back at John. "Tell me, John, when do you think I first became aware of Moriarty's psychopathological interest in my brother?"

"I don't – "

"Six years ago." Mycroft pauses by the desk, his eyes distant for a moment. "That's when his interest first came to my attention."

"Six years? But – but, even Sherlock didn't know about him until that cabbie that I shot –"

He breaks off belatedly, but Mycroft gives him a wry look. "I don't think we need concern ourselves with your role that night, John. I am not working for the Metropolitan police." He grimaces at the very idea.

"But _surely_ – I mean, are you telling me that you _knew_ Moriarty was a danger to Sherlock at least eighteen months before he heard his name?"

"At that time, I didn't know for certain what his motivation was. All I _did_ know was that he had an obvious interest in the life and activities of one Sherlock Holmes. He was also, quite clearly, a serious risk to the security of this country and its people, and I had to step very carefully." Mycroft gazes over John's shoulder at the panelled wall, his voice quiet. "Sherlock…did not help matters much… His 'game' with Moriarty caused far more problems than even _he_ was able to solve."

"Something of an understatement." John is surprised to hear his own voice emerging; sounding dry and rough in contrast to Mycroft's carefully modulated vowels.

Mycroft throws him an undecipherable smile. "And that is – _was_ \- my brother's main problem. Oh, I do not deny that he was excellent at solving the crimes that were _seen_ ….but he sometimes failed to take into account that which is _unseen_."

"And that fell to you." It isn't a question, but Mycroft nods nonetheless.

"Indeed. When you met my brother – and proved to be somewhat useful on that occasion - in one sense, I was pleased. What I saw that night was a steadying influence on a young man who has caused me considerable worry for most of his life. But, in another sense, I _was_ concerned – for _you_. And for him too, in a way. You have no doubt heard my brother telling you on more than one occasion that caring is not an advantage. Clearly, you do not believe that to be the case. But, Sherlock _was_ right... when it came to James Moriarty."

Mycroft has John's full attention now, as he begins to pace once more.

"Moriarty worked in a subtle way. For him, it was all about human motivation…and human weakness. Moriarty was not interested in systems or codes. His fascination was with people – and how far he could push them. Friendship, hatred, loyalty, greed, attraction, lust, love … those were his weapons. There was nothing he loved more than to discover an individual's weaknesses and exploit them.

"In _your_ case, the weakness he exploited was loyalty – the loyalty of a soldier to his comrade. Not a weakness, you think? Well, maybe not – certainly not on a traditional battlefield - but to Moriarty, it was a key. A chink in your armour. He knew what your reaction would be – that you would try to sacrifice yourself for Sherlock's sake. He saw that very early on in your association with my brother.

"In Sherlock's case, it was vanity, a desire to solve the 'unsolvable'… an addiction to the game… and perhaps, in the case of Ms Adler, a certain degree of loneliness. Oh yes, Ms Adler was a very clever move by Mr Moriarty.

"In _my_ case…" His voice fades away and he stops by the desk, his head dropping to gaze unseeingly at something there.

"In my case, the weakness was fear."

He looks up and laughs drily at John's face.

"Does that surprise you? Does it startle you to learn that the great Mycroft Holmes lies awake at night in fear of what might happen – in fear of the most dire consequences? I suppose you imagine that I am always in perfect control… and so I _am_. But the fear remains, even if I control it. You must know _something_ of the depth of the power I possess, although you are perhaps unaware of its full reach.

"My life… is not an easy one, John. Oh, I chose it, I desired it. The entirety of my adult life has been focused purely on the goal of gaining - of _obtaining_ \- power. Power over my own life, power over those around me… even power over those who will never know that I exist. With power comes responsibility… the need to ensure that every decision I make is for the good of this country.

"And James Moriarty exploited that. You think that I betrayed Sherlock? Perhaps I did. All I knew was that a very dangerous man had to be compelled to reveal his secrets, and that one person had to be sacrificed for the good of the many. Even if that individual was my own brother. Responsibility, John. Responsibility… and power…."

He turns to face John. "And now I have responsibility for _you_."

"What?" John is startled out his daze. Mycroft has never been this informative before, and he had been imagining the encounters that the spymaster must have had with the consulting criminal. "What do you mean? Oh, no you _don't_ , Mycroft. You don't start 'owning' me the way you tried to own Sherlock."

Mycroft sighs and there's an air of impatience about it. Any minute now, he will start casting meaningful glances at his watch.

"This is not about 'ownership', as you term it. The reality is that you are now in a very dangerous position – more so than you ever were in Afghanistan. A position that is, perhaps, of my brother's making -"

"And I have never regretted it – not a minute of it." John's voice is firm. And he means it. He wouldn't take any of it back – the midnight chases, Sherlock's experiments, even being the subject of one at Baskerville. Sherlock had shaken the life back into him; had made him so much more than a useless, crippled ex-army medic.

"I understand that, John – perhaps better than you realise." The last comment is a muttered aside, and John's not quite sure if he heard right, but Mycroft looks at him with those oddly intense Holmes eyes.

"I _could_ compel you to accept my protection. You realise that, of course." The man makes a casual gesture. "In twenty minutes from now, you could be on a plane, being taken to a place where no one will ever find you."

" _No_." He spits the word out, fixing Mycroft with his most venomous glare.

"No? I thought not. But – don't you understand, John? I _have_ to keep you safe; it's my responsibility – "

"No. It is _not_."

"I made a promise –" Mycroft breaks off, abruptly and turns away. He seems almost… distracted.

"Promise to _who_?"

The older Holmes brother sinks into his chair, seemingly weary. He fiddles with a file on his desk for a moment, and then smiles again, his eyes not meeting John's.

"It would seem we are at an impasse. I wish to be of help to you, but you will not accept my protection, and I cannot – I do not have the _right_ – to impose it on you. No -" he shakes his head, and John has the strangest impression that he is having an argument with himself… or with someone else. "No, I _don't_ have that right."

John leans forward. "You really want to help me? Great. Then help me solve this case. Find me the link between those victims and lead me to the killer. You know you can do it." He leans back. "That's all I'm going to ask of you."

Mycroft's eyes flicker to the file he is holding and then looks up at John, his mouth twisted in a strange manner. "I cannot do that. If I could, believe me, I would… but there are circumstances that I cannot explain to you."

"Then we have nothing further to say to one another." John stands, making it clear that the conversation is finished.

Mycroft doesn't stand; he merely makes a weary gesture of dismissal, his head bowed.

John hesitates, not knowing quite what to say. In the end, he shrugs and turns towards the door.

"John?"

He stops, turns back towards Mycroft.

"Please, for your own sake… don't get involved further in Inspector Lestrade's case. And do be careful. Don't trust to old friendships."

John nods, not trusting himself to say anything, and leaves.

* * *

He's on Baker Street, just approaching 221B when he hears the whisper from a nearby alleyway.

"Hey, Doc?"

He stops, squinting into the gloom. "Bex, is that you?"

She emerges from the alley, her eyes wary. "I gotta message for you."

"Yes?" _Could it be Sherlock_? She seems to read the unasked question in his eyes and shakes her head slowly. _No_.

He frowns. There's something about her; she lacks her usual streetwise confidence. Her eyes are dark with something… an expression that is somehow familiar to him…

"What is it, Bex? What's the message?"

" _This_."

It's a mere whisper, and just as his wits catch up with him and he recognises the fear in her eyes, there's an all-too familiar crack of a pistol.

He throws himself forward, grabbing for her, but all too late – _far too late_ – as the dark blood spatters across his front.

The utter terror in her eyes dulls as she sinks through his out-flung arms, dead before she even touches the ground.

A scrap of paper falls from her limp hand into the spreading pool of blood.

_I believe in Sherlock Holmes._


	6. Chapter 6

John has always been fascinated by the effects of death on the human body; how it can diminish even the bodies of big, strong men in indefinable ways. Bex's body resembles nothing more than that of a child. He had once glimpsed an old soul in those streetwise eyes, and she'd maintained a womanly dignity despite her tender years and impoverished state that had led other homeless young people to seek out her advice. All of that had been ripped from her in a mere moment by the bullet that had entered the side of her skull, killing her instantly.

She looks so much like a child when the stretcher takes her away that Greg Lestrade winces at the sight as he approaches the scene.

John leans against the door of 221, watching the forensic team working around the blood stain on the paving slabs. He feels oddly remote – detached from the scene. He hasn't been asked for a statement yet – in fact, after giving him a close look, the coppers who were the first to arrive at the scene had quickly backed away, leaving him alone. The shock blanket around his shoulders seems rather unnecessary; he raises his shoulders to shift it a little, and wonders blankly why his red hands are shaking. And also why they are red.

Lestrade looks at him without speaking for a moment, and something in John's eyes makes him lean against the door next to him. His broad, comfortable shoulders nudge at John's, and the doctor moves along obligingly, without thinking much about it.

"They tell me she was wearing an ear piece. Under her hat," Lestrade clarifies.

John nods. He didn't know that, but it seems likely.

"She was receiving instructions."

"Yeah." If John lingers too long on that image, any minute now, he'll be back _there_ – at the pool, with that high mad voice in his head, reliving the mind-numbing terror of not knowing whether the next second will be his last.

Except, for Bex, it really _was_ the last moment of her short life.

Did she _know_ that the message was a bullet, or had she been told that she'd be OK if she just delivered that note? Did she believe that? John can't bear to imagine what was going through the young woman's mind; those terror-stricken eyes haunt him.

Talking of the note… he sees a member of the team retrieving it from the pool of blood and bagging it. She waves the evidence bag in Greg's direction; he takes it and raises his eyebrow at the words.

"Hmm. Looks like our old friend has been busy again. This –," he gestures generally in the direction of the scene, but John knows he means more than just this latest murder, "- has the stamp of Jim Moriarty all over it."

"It's not Moriarty." John's voice is low, controlled, but he can feel the anger inside, rising like a spring about to uncoil.

Greg turns to him, confused. "How'd you know that? You know something we don't?"

The laughter bubbles up in him, entirely unexpected – he feels it rising through his gut like vomit and bursting out of his body, sounding obscenely loud and inappropriate at the quiet crime scene. He's aware of Greg's hand on his shoulder, of the forensic team pausing in their work to stare up at him in disbelief, as he gasps and chokes.

" _I_ know something you don't? Know what, Greg? That's fucking funny. That's _really fucking hilarious_ … You wanna know why? Because in _fact_ I know nothing – _nothing_ …."

"John –," Greg's hand reaches out to grab his arm, but he throws it off as he hurls himself down the steps, striding towards the CCTV camera across the street.

"This stops _here_. _Fuck you, Mycroft_. _This. Stops. Here_. Do you _understand_ me?" He's screaming at the camera now, feeling the last vestiges of his self-control leaving him.

"John! For fuck's sake, what's got into you?" Greg runs up to him and grabs his shoulder, pulling him around roughly. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I believe I can answer that, Detective Inspector."

John tenses at the voice.

Greg turns towards the parked police cars by the security cordon. "Mr Holmes, what are you doing here?"

"I think the doctor may be looking for some information. No doubt that is the reason for his outburst. Rather unnecessary as I was already on my way, but nevertheless –"

Those smooth rounded syllables are the last straw. John launches himself at Mycroft, drawing his hand back. He feels a visceral satisfaction at the audible crack as his fist meets the man's nose. The spymaster falls back against one of the police cars, blood spattering across the paintwork.

Before John can get in another blow, he's grabbed and held in a beefy PC's iron grip. His muscles protest automatically against the restraint for a moment before sense takes over and he finds himself subsiding.

"OK, OK, let him go." Greg orders. He moves slightly between the two men, braced just in case, but John steps back, making his intentions clear. "Jesus, John, what the hell is going on here?"

Mycroft sits up rather shakily, patting at his newly broken nose, from which blood is gushing freely. He gives John a slightly wry look and reaches for his briefcase, which has been knocked to the floor.

"You _could_ have helped. You _could_ have stopped this. I asked you to help, but it was just too much trouble, wasn't it? Or just too _unimportant_?" John gestures towards the ambulance. "After all, what's the death of just another homeless person, eh?"

The spymaster glances in the same direction. "I couldn't have stopped _this_ , John."

"You don't know that for certain." John can't keep still; the adrenaline is making him pace fiercely.

"I'm sorry about the girl."

"You're _sorry_? _You're_ sorry?" John stops pacing and pushes his face close to Mycroft. "Have you any idea…? She wasn't just some girl, you bastard, she was –."

_She was what? She was Sherlock's friend and my only contact with him, my only real proof that he's still alive in three years, because he IS alive, your brother - and she gave me hope that I might see him again, because…because I'm not properly alive without him, I'm only half a person when he's not around - and God I so wish I'd realised that when I still had a chance to tell him, and I would tell him, I would, even if he laughed at me, because it wouldn't matter, I wouldn't care, just as long as he knew - and I would never, ever have called him a machine if I'd only known that it was one of the last times I would speak to him – and you will never know how it makes me feel to know that I can't tell him that I didn't mean it - and if Sherlock walked back into my life, I don't know if I'd hit him or hug him or shout at him or storm out or just cry, but I will never, ever let him leave me again, not ever… And I can't tell you any of that, and it's killing me…_

"She was a friend," he finishes, rather lamely. The fight has gone out of him now, and his knuckle is definitely regretting the punch as much as Mycroft's nose is. His legs are beginning to shake, and an agonising pain shoots through his bad shoulder.

"Come on, John," Greg takes his arm again. "Look, quite frankly, you look like shit right now and you've clearly had enough. And so have I. Let's take this inside, shall we?"

"I haven't given my statement yet." John is suddenly reluctant to leave the scene. It feels as if he's abandoning Bex, however stupid that may seem.

Lestrade rolls his eyes. "I think I can probably take it myself, over a cup of tea. Come on, John, you look done in. And you," he gives Mycroft a stern look, "had better come in too."

Mycroft grants the DI a mild nod and follows them towards 221B, waving off a paramedic's offer to treat his nose.

As John climbs the stairs to the flat, he becomes aware of the stickiness of his work clothes. His blood-soaked trousers adhere uncomfortably to his thighs. He glances at his hands and sees the dark blood. But of course. The type of bullet Bex received, its trajectory and speed, is designed to cause as much damage as possible – more or less carrying away the back of her skull on its journey from one side to the other. John is liberally covered in haemorrhaged blood all down his front, from his head to his feet. No wonder he was receiving so many strange looks out there.

He pulls out his wallet, phone and keys and throws them to Lestrade, toeing his way out of his shoes as he does so. Immediately inside the flat, he strips down to his boxers with no embarrassment, gathering his clothes into a pile and dumping them in a bin bag in the kitchen. They're probably not redeemable, but he supposes there's a chance forensics might need them.

"Make yourselves at home," he mutters to Lestrade and Mycroft, jerking his head towards the kettle before crossing the lounge towards the bathroom door.

He runs the shower as hot as he can bear before stepping underneath to scrub the dried gore off his face and arms. Eyes closed against the steady stream, he soaps his hair, breathing in the herbal scent, trying to eliminate the sweet, sickening stench of blood. Even this act feels like some kind of betrayal – as if he is washing away Bex's memory.

He keeps his eyes closed for a few minutes, leaning against the cool wall as the hot water thunders unused down the plughole, uncaring of the impact on the water and electricity bills. The throbbing in his shoulder has faded to a degree but he can feel the beginning of a stress headache forming in his temples. It's been a bloody long day, and a shatteringly emotional one, and there's no end in sight that he can see.

"John?" Greg shouts from the doorway, breaking into his reverie. "I've got you some spare clothes, just popping them round the door."

"Yeah, thanks," he shouts, dipping back under the water to wash off the last of the shower gel before turning off the shower and stepping out of the bath. Greg has laid out some spare towels and clean underwear, jeans and a t-shirt – he must have raided John's wardrobe. John finds that he doesn't particularly care about this invasion of privacy.

Dressed, he stares at his face in the mirror, not recognising himself for a moment. He's pale with fatigue and, perhaps, with more than a little shock. His eyes are shockingly dark-ringed and he's lost more weight; his features look gaunt and old, with permanent lines across his forehead and around his thin mouth. He wonders suddenly whether Sherlock would even recognise him as the John he knew - his friend and blogger, the man who would follow him anywhere.

He glances down at his swollen knuckles and gets a first aid box from the cabinet, taking it out into the lounge. Mycroft is sitting in Sherlock's chair, trying to stem the slow flow of blood from his nostrils.

"Here." John passes him a wad of cotton wool. "I'll get you some ice."

"Thank you." Mycroft's voice sounds slightly muffled but otherwise much the same as normal.

In the kitchen, Greg is dipping tea bags into 3 mugs, bachelor-style. John fetches the bag of crushed ice he had got into the habit of having handy for Sherlock-related mishaps – it hasn't been needed since The Fall.

"I'm sorry about that," he remarks, nodding at the clearly broken nose as he passes the makeshift ice pack, wrapped in a tea towel. He sits in his chair with a sigh. "Well, actually, _no_ I'm not – not _really_. You deserved it."

Mycroft gives a slightly cautious and rather pained smile. "Possibly. You need not worry, my personal physician will sort it out. Anthea is already onto it and will be sending a car to collect me shortly."

He hesitates before continuing. "I meant what I said. Nothing could have saved Miss Reynolds. Miss Rebecca Reynolds," he clarifies as he sees John's confused face. "Twenty four years old, from a broken home, taken into care at the age of eight, a number of failed fostering attempts, ran away from the children's home on numerous occasions, left school with no qualifications, homeless since the age of nineteen. A bright young woman, but never able to escape her past, with an abusive father and an in-denial mother who blamed her, and frequently let down by teachers who failed to spot the potential behind the rather sullen attitude."

"Sherlock did," says John before he can stop himself.

Mycroft nods. "Yes, of course – his infamous Homeless Network. I know that Miss Reynolds was of help to him on many occasions. I know it may seem as if I don't care, but believe me when I say that if I thought I could have protected her, I would. However, I'm afraid her death warrant was signed a long time ago." He sighs. "One of the consequences of getting involved with my brother."

Greg has placed a tray of tea and biscuits on the coffee table, and he pulls up a third chair and sits down, watching Mycroft intently.

"Her death was a warning to you, John. Possibly for being in touch with me – I do not know. However, it was just an excuse. At some point, she would have been killed anyway for her knowledge and usefulness to Sherlock – and you."

"And you couldn't have helped her?"

"I sent an agent to offer her a change of location – and opportunity." Mycroft picks up his mug and sips the tea, wincing at the strong taste. "She refused. A very proud and independent young lady."

Greg allows the silence to stretch a little before breaking it. "Right. Are you going to fill me in now?"

Mycroft favours him with a slight smile and reaches into his briefcase, withdrawing a file. "This, Detective Inspector, is a file of information about the victims, investigating links with James Moriarty, who is dead by the way, and identifying potential future victims. Dr Watson requested this information of me earlier this evening. I was subsequently… persuaded that it might be wise to assist him in some way."

Greg blinks at this and takes the file from him.

The power behind the British Government rises in a leisurely manner, as if this is nothing more than a polite social visit. "Well, I believe that my car is about to arrive. As the road is cordoned off, I shall have to walk to meet it. My thanks to you both for your hospitality."

He extends his hand to Greg, who shakes it with some suspicion, and collects his case, turning briefly to John.

"Goodnight, John. I hope the information may be of some use to the investigation. And -," the smile fades from his face, "- I do hope that you will consider the warning I gave you earlier today."

John nods, not getting up. Mycroft looks at him intently, appearing to be on the verge of saying something, before he gives another brief insincere smile and leaves the flat.

Greg sighs, sounding relieved as he flicks quickly through the file. "Christ, he's a tricky bugger, isn't he? Never quite know what he means."

"You know him well?"

The DI shrugs. "How well does _anyone_ know him? I remember meeting him a few times, back when Sherlock was in rehab. Always got the impression of a tiger waiting to pounce, with his claws tucked away just out of sight, you know what I mean? I think he disapproved of me letting Sherlock onto crime scenes, but the kid was just _so_ desperate for something to do that I couldn't bring myself to stop him, y'know?"

"Sherlock thought you were working for him," John comments, remembering Dartmoor.

" _Bollocks_ was I working for him," Greg mutters. "Yeah, he approached me, but I turned him down flat. Despite what certain sections of the media might think, DIs at New Scotland Yard are _not_ open to bribery." He chuckles. "And then I thought of the potential consequences of having to spring Sherlock from the clutches of the Devon constabulary and decided to turn up anyway."

John grins at the image this throws up, and then sobers up again. It's going to be a long night. He holds out his hand for the file. "Come on, Greg. You might as well let me go through it – you're not going to have time anyway, and you know I'll let you know if there's anything useful."

Greg hesitates. It's yet another broken rule to give up potential evidence to a civilian, and Mycroft had very pointedly given the file to him, as if he hadn't wanted John to be involved. John wonders what made him change his mind so soon after their meeting – perhaps even before Bex was killed.

"Yeah, OK then – but this goes no further, or it's my neck on the line. And drink that up first -," he gestures at John's untouched mug, "- or you'll collapse before you even get a chance. And I want your statement too – we'll make it as quick as possible."

John gulps his drink quickly and obediently crunches up the ginger biscuit that Greg holds out to him, all the time conscious of the strange almost-reversal of roles. It doesn't seem that long ago that he would have been in Greg's position, forcing refreshment onto Sherlock in the middle of a case.

He gives his official statement – not that there's much to tell, but he reconstructs it as carefully as he can, describing Bex as a woman whom he had recognised as one of Sherlock's unofficial operatives and had offered medical care to on occasions. He doesn't mention the attack three years ago or the bag of food and clothing that he had given her on that occasion. He answers Greg's brief questions as truthfully as possible.

Satisfied, the DI passes Mycroft's file to him. He puts away his notebook and leans back in his chair, glancing around with interest at the skull above the fireplace, the Cluedo board stuck to the wall with a knife, the piles of books littering every spare surface.

"I see you haven't changed the decor that much – not in here, anyway," he comments, lightly. "The kitchen seems much cleaner though."

John grunts, busy sifting through pages and creating piles on the coffee table. It must be getting on for 11PM now, but he's determined to make a start at least before going to bed. He _needs_ to.

Gradually he becomes aware of an expectant silence in the room. He pauses, looking up to find the DI watching him. "Yes?"

"Why do you stay here? It can't be easy to meet the rent and the bills by yourself. And it can't be easy in other ways either – coming back to all this, the memories," Greg gestures around the room and looks back at John, his dark eyes very kind. "It's almost as if you think he's going to walk back in at any moment and – and, well, it's been three years, John." His voice is very quiet. "Maybe it's time to move on? No one would think the worst of you for packing all this up and putting it in storage, or perhaps giving it away. If you want – if you would find it difficult – I can –"

"No." John cuts across the well-meaning words. "No. Not – not yet. I _can't_ –." He breaks off, looking down at the papers.

Greg rises, comes over and squeezes his shoulder briefly. "I understand. I _do_ , really. If you change your mind… well, you know where I am."

"I know. Thank you." John makes an effort to smile up at him.

Greg stretches, groaning slightly. "Well, I'm off – gotta finish off out there and get back to the Yard. Another all-nighter. Don't stay up too late with that file." He gives him a stern look. "You look done in. You don't know if there's going to be anything useful – and even if there is, we've got time. He always leaves at least six weeks between hits, remember?"

"He didn't this time," John points out, jerking his head towards the window.

Greg frowns. "We don't even know if this is the same bloke. It's a completely different pattern and method. Hate to say it, John, but I think her death was more personal, more aimed at you. Like that near 'accident' you had yesterday. Something to do with Mycroft – or Sherlock maybe. It's not our killer's usual style or typical choice of victim."

"Hmm." John isn't convinced. It seems to him that the killer's pattern has _already_ changed, with the message at the last scene being written by a different hand.

Greg hesitates. "Look, John, I really shouldn't be asking you to get involved, but, frankly, I'm all out of fucks to give. You asked Mycroft for info, which I wouldn't have done 'cos I just don't trust that bastard, but that's fine, I asked you to help. And, OK, he's given you something to work on, and I trust you to hand over anything that might help. But we _do_ have a team of experts working on this. Just because you don't hear anything on TV, it doesn't mean there isn't a big operation going on in the background. We do take this bloke seriously – just because he's after low-lifes, it doesn't mean we don't want to catch him." He sighs. "It's just difficult when there's a long time between hits and we have no idea what he's doing in the meantime."

John comes to the door with him. As time goes by, the feelings of guilt about concealing Sherlock's survival from this essentially decent man grow ever greater, and it's probably this that compels him to shake Greg's hand. "Good luck, Greg. I'll be in touch soon."

"Yeah, well, right then." Greg looks a little confused by John's formal gesture. "See you around. I'll let you know if there's anything that comes up at the girl's autopsy. And let me have that file as soon as you can."

* * *

Three hours later, John slumps back in his chair, rubbing absently at his aching shoulder. Mycroft's minions are nothing if not thorough, and he's convinced he must have read about every gang member in London by now. There's CCTV photos showing meetings between members and between victims and undercover police, and several showing a tall, muscly figure in a balaclava and dark clothing following various victims, presumably to their deaths, although no actual murder scenes. Either they've been left out of the file, which is unlikely, or there simply aren't any. It suggests that Jovanovic, if this _is_ him, has a very good knowledge of where CCTV cameras are located in London – or someone does, at least.

And, at the very back of the file, there's a single photograph of a dead man with a note in Mycroft's writing: _I thought it might reassure you to receive absolute proof_.

John picks it up again and gazes at the mask-like features of James Moriarty lying on a slab. A single shot in the mouth, the impact of the bullet taking off the back of his skull but leaving his face unmarked and recognisable. Self-inflicted, presumably, the gun found clutched in his hand. Unless someone had forced him to it in some way.

John doesn't like to think what happened between Sherlock and Moriarty before the detective jumped. If he _had_ ever doubted it before, he's now absolutely sure that Sherlock met the consulting criminal during that brief period when he was sent on that fool's errand to Mrs Hudson. Something happened – something that compelled Moriarty to kill himself and forced Sherlock to pretend to do so, but what? And which act took place first? Did one lead directly to the other?

His mind runs over the meeting with Mycroft, and he recalls what the man had said about international crime syndicates being systematically destroyed from within. Bodies turning up, cause of death unknown. The anonymous provision of evidence to police forces in other countries – well, he suspects he knows who's behind that. But the killing of key figures, by violence or suicide – that's another matter and it troubles him.

Could Sherlock actually kill? If so, would he do so only in self-defence or in cold blood? In all the time John knew Sherlock, he never saw any sign that he would actually kill. Fight, _yes_ , and he's pretty good at it. And Mrs Hudson's attacker would clearly have regretted raising so much as a finger to the housekeeper, from his hospital bed, having been so unceremoniously ejected by an enraged consulting detective from an upper window. But actual cold-blooded murder is very different and, anyway, Sherlock's preferred weapon is his quicksilver tongue.

John knows that _he's_ killed in cold blood and without much compunction too, but then he was a soldier, trained to kill as and when required, even when his main mission was to preserve life. In Afghanistan, the lines could be blurred a little – he'd saved the life of many a Taliban operative, breathing life back into them, staunching the blood, stitching and dressing the wounds, before sending them into captivity. And he'd been called into prison on more than one occasion to resuscitate those who'd attempted suicide … and once for another reason too, although he tried to block the memory of that occasion.

He stretches his aching spine and shakes his head slightly to dislodge the images. Sighing, he picks up two pages and looks at the circled names again. Still, Mycroft's agents seem fairly certain, and the man himself is no fool. He grabs his mobile and hits Greg's number.

"Lestrade." Greg's clearly still at work despite the hour, his voice creaky with fatigue but otherwise sounding quite alert.

"Greg, it's John."

"Christ, don't tell me you're still working on that file. You need to _sleep_."

"So do you."

The DI gives a hoarse laugh. "Yeah, well. What is it?"

"There are a couple of names – people who may be targeted by the murderer."

"OK, give me the details."

"Samir Hamid. Moroccan, here on a student permit but suspected of involvement with a group who may be importing bomb parts. He's under surveillance by MI6, but his participation is considered to be reluctant at best. There's an undercover at his mosque trying to strike up a friendship with him. And Ryan Ellis. Got a couple of past convictions for possession of class A drugs – possible distribution but never proved. Got parole, but being pushed for information on some of his colleagues. I think you should try to trace them before the killer strikes again."

"OK, got it. Right, John, that's enough for now. You get to bed. And bring that file by as soon as you can."

"Will do."

The line goes dead, and John stifles a yawn, suddenly feeling completely shattered. He glances at his watch – just after 2AM.

He shuffles the papers into a neat pile, glancing at the photograph of Jim Moriarty one last time before he pushes the whole lot back into the file. After a moment's consideration, he stashes the file in his 'security system' - aka the middle of a teetering pile of paperwork belonging to Sherlock that he's never got around to tidying away. He grins as he imagines Sherlock's reaction to getting his scrawled notes 'contaminated' by proximity to a file with his brother's far neater writing on it.

After cleaning his teeth and going to the loo, he walks up the steps to his bedroom wearily, and pauses only to remove his jeans before collapsing onto the mattress. He's in a deep sleep within seconds.

His dreams are uneasy. Time and again, he finds himself running after a familiar dark swirling coat, his legs heavy and refusing to cooperate. He keeps trying to get closer, but Sherlock is always just out of sight - around the corner, behind a tree. All he sees is the back of that coat. One minute he's in a forest, among dark dripping trees that impede his route and roots that threaten to trip him, while that coat moves on quickly between the trunks ahead of him. Next, it's dark urban streets, with twisting alleyways and just vague occasional glimpses of the Belstaff. Then he's back at the Baskerville laboratory, frantically running along endless white passages and seeking a way out – and there's Sherlock's coat, glimpsed through the tinted window of a locked door. He pounds on the door and shouts, but the coat moves around another corner…

He wakes with a start in daylight, exhausted and sticky-eyed but knowing he won't sleep again. His clock tells him it's 7.25. He lies back down again, staring blankly at the ceiling.

The pale morning sun peeking through the window throws a ray across the bed and, despite his lack of sleep and the threat of a real, rather than feigned, headache developing, he revels in the warmth and peace of the moment. If he could only stay here – right _here_ – and shut the world out…

But that would mean shutting Sherlock out too.

He forces himself out of his warm cocoon and hits the shower, hoping to clear his head. That done, he swallows 2 paracetamol, hoping to ward off the inevitable, and shuffles back up to his bedroom to dress, trying to decide what to do on his day off.

Two mugs of tea and a plate of toast later, he's forced to concede that this is going to be one of _those_ days. He can't settle to anything – he can't bear to face Mycroft's file or any of his own notes after last night, and he's not sure of his welcome at the Yard after what he said to Sally. He flicks restlessly through the TV channels before giving it up as a bad job. He powers up his laptop, logs into his blog, gazes rather blankly at his last ever entry - _He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him_ \- and closes it down again. He leans back in his chair, stares at the wall and briefly contemplates giving the kitchen a clean.

"Well, fuck this."

Five minutes later, he's on his way to Regent's Park.

* * *

"John? John Watson! Is that you?"

John is strolling around the boating lake, having tramped all around the park, up towards the Zoo and back again. It's another still, slightly humid, day, and with the hot breeze ruffling his over-long hair and the sun warm on his face, he almost feels relaxed enough to return to Baker Street and attempt to catch up on his sleep. He's been lulled into a hypnotic state of just putting one foot in front of the other and at first the sound of his name being called doesn't filter into his subconscious.

"John! It's me – Bill! Bill Murray."

He stops dead. _Bill_?

And, sure enough, he can see the stocky figure of his old friend, Bill Murray hurrying towards him.

"John? I can't believe it, after all these years!"

"Bill… Bill, it's – it's _wonderful_ to see you." And he means it, as he shakes the other man's hand. Without Captain William Stewart Murray, he'd never have made it out of Afghanistan, might never have met Sherlock and had his life changed forever. This short, unassuming sandy-haired Scot had backed him up on more than one occasion, and it had been Bill who'd slung John's unconscious bloodied form over his shoulder and got him onto an evacuating helicopter.

They'd always meant to keep in touch, but what with John's injury and depression, and Bill staying on to finish his tour and then coming back to a fiancée – well… for various reasons, John had found it easier to move on and leave the past behind him. His life had become consumed by Sherlock, and the Yarders, and the Moriarty enigma.

Looking at his friend's pleasant, open, _uncomplicated_ face, he can't understand why he didn't try harder. The army wasn't the worst time in his life, after all. He'd made some good mates and managed to have some fun, even during the tours of Northern Ireland and Afghanistan, in between the skirmishes and the long hours in surgery. If it hadn't been for that sniper's bullet, he'd have probably signed on for a third tour; might have even got that promotion that had once seemed so important.

"Bloody hell, Bill! I can't believe it's you." His eyes run over his friend. "You haven't changed a bit."

His friend laughs, patting his rounded tummy. "Now I _know_ it's really you – only Captain John Watson could deliver such shit with a straight face. I know I've put on weight – I put it down to marriage and kids and too many takeaways and not enough running for your life from people who want to kill you."

"So, Elaine managed to tie you down in the end, then? Congratulations. And you've got kids now?"

"One, and another on the way." Bill pulls a weary face and John laughs.

"That's wonderful news. I'm so pleased for you, Bill."

"So what about you?" Bill's shrewd eyes rake over John, taking in the lack of a ring on his finger and the drawn, thin features. His genial smile falters very slightly. "Well, you look…"

"It's OK," John raises his hand. "You don't have to say it. I know I look shit. The last few years have been a bit…difficult."

"Because of Sherlock Holmes?" At John's questioning expression, Bill clarifies. "I read your blog. And saw the news – what happened. That must have been tough."

John feels his hackles rising as usual. "If you saw my blog, then you'll know. I did – and _do_ – believe in him. He wasn't a fake."

He averts his eyes, not wanting to see the pity in his old comrade's eyes.

"I know."

He looks up, surprised. There's no pity, just a gentle, understanding expression.

"I know," Bill continues. " _You_ believe in him. And _I_ believe in _you_ – always have done. So, if you say he's for real, then he must be."

John feels his heart lighten at this simple expression of faith. It's almost a shock – he hadn't realised just how heavy his heart had grown. He can almost feel the fresh energy seeping into his body.

"Look, John, are you free for lunch? We could get a beer and catch up."

"Yeah, why not?"

They end up in the Garden Café, talking amiably over gourmet burgers and pints of beer about their lives, Bill's growing family, and old mutual friends and colleagues. It turns out that Bill hadn't signed on for his third tour after all – they had planned to sign on together in the hope of bagging Iraq, but it hadn't seemed worth it with John invalided out. Instead, Bill had got his discharge and had focused on his new wife and family.

"And it's OK, is it? Your job?"

Bill takes a gulp of his second beer. "Yeah, not bad. Not very exciting, I basically advise banks and companies on their security procedures. Looking for weaknesses, that kind of thing. But the main thing is that I get to go home at the same time each day."

It doesn't sound very interesting to John, but then, who's he to talk? After all, he used to moan at Sherlock when he was woken up in the early hours or forced to go out on a case after a long day at work. And Bill _does_ have a toddler, which is a tough enough job in its own way. But it doesn't seem to fit with the lively, restless, slightly mad guy he remembers.

Bill had got his attention during basic training – mainly because he was one of the few who'd had the balls to talk back to the complete arse of a sergeant who'd enjoyed terrorising the newbies. John was part of a group who'd signed up for fast-tracking to officer status – mainly newly-qualified doctors and other professionals – and that complete dirt-bag seemed hell-bent on not just humiliating them, but completely annihilating their spirits.

William Murray, a trained A&E nurse who'd seen it all, wouldn't take this lying down – he gave it back with interest and frequently wrong-footed the sergeant in a way that John had found pretty entertaining. From then on, Bill and John were usually together – best mates, assigned to the same squadron, working in the same medical team. When, after their tour of Northern Ireland, Bill got restless with his role and decided he wanted to retrain as a sniper, John was sorry to see him go. However, he accepted the fact that his friend was bored and needed something more challenging.

"Bill, I meant to ask, what happened to Colonel Moran in the end? Is he still out there?"

"Seb? Oh, he's out too. Did his fourth tour and decided that enough was enough. He stayed in for a bit, went into training, but then he got bored with it. He was talking about going into security."

"He'd be good at that." Despite his ambivalent feelings towards Colonel Sebastian Moran, John can't deny that the man was bloody good at his job.

Being selected for Moran's team was considered the ultimate honour. Moran carried out a lot of the training and his level of expertise meant he could pretty much choose who would serve with him. He'd hand-picked Bill Murray for the Afghanistan tour, and John had shared his friend's pride at the distinction.

John had respected, even liked, Moran. In fact, among certain quarters, the man had hero status. He was authoritative but fair, happy to share his knowledge and experience, and utterly loyal to his men. He'd conducted John's own weapons training and had complemented the young doctor on his skills with a gun – John can still remember the warm glow he'd felt at the charismatic colonel's admiring comments. He can understand why Bill was so taken with the man back then.

The colonel had even supported John when his evidence had led to the dishonourable discharge of one of Moran's best snipers.

John had been called into the camp's prison one afternoon – it wasn't unusual, as many of the prisoners used whatever methods they could to attempt suicide, and John had already had to resuscitate a few of them. But this was slightly different – the man had been knocked unconscious from a severe blow to his head and had other serious injuries also – broken ribs, internal bleeding and traumatic injuries to his groin. As he worked on the naked body, trying to get a pulse, John had been sickened by the clear signs of boot marks on his chest, back and stomach.

The guards had tried to pass it off as a fight between prisoners, but the prints from military-style boots were damning, and John had ensured that plenty of photographs were taken to preserve the evidence for an inquest into the man's death.

It turned out that a Captain Robert Marshall had been on duty with his normal partner when they were engaged in a skirmish with some Taliban snipers. Rob's mate had been severely injured before he'd had managed to wound the sniper and bring him in. Four days later, Rob had received the devastating news that his mate had only just made it back to the UK before dying. The young soldier had gone straight to the prison and taken his violent revenge while the guards looked on without intervening.

Sebastian Moran had initially stood by Rob Marshall – the young man was one of his finest snipers and a personal friend. In fact, everyone liked Rob, including John, which made it all the harder for him to bring charges. By all accounts, the prisoner had been pretty unpleasant – uncooperative and verbally and physically violent, constantly insulting his guards and threatening them with annihilation. No one was particularly sorry that he hadn't survived Rob's attack.

To give Moran his due, once he'd seen John's damning evidence, he'd accepted the inevitable and hadn't offered any protest to his protégé's dishonourable discharge. Moran might be hard-edged, but he had a clear code of conduct and appeared to agree with John that, no matter what Rob's personal feelings might be, he should not have taken out his anger on an unarmed prisoner.

The whole incident had made things awkward for John for a while – there were mutters and side-glances, particularly from Moran's team, and even Bill had been a bit quiet for a while. Moran had put an end to any lingering hostility with a firm endorsement of Captain Watson's actions – he'd gone out of his way to shake John's hand and publicly thank him for putting an end to behaviour unbefitting a professional soldier. His influence had been enough to improve the squadron's feelings towards John, but he'd remained uneasy in the presence of the Colonel since then. He'd also felt guilty about ending the career of such a promising young soldier. However, he'd never admitted that to anyone while he was at Bastion. He'd feared that doing so would suggest that he had regretted his decision to get Rob court-martialled - and he hadn't.

It's guilt now that stops John from asking after Rob, and Bill doesn't mention him either. It's possible that he doesn't know anything about him. They carefully skirt around the awkward issues and laugh themselves silly over memories of training days and the crazier moments at Camp Bastion. Bill is fascinated by John's descriptions of some of Sherlock's cases, and it's an incredible relief to talk about them to someone who appears to hold no doubts as to their veracity.

The hours pass by as the pints multiply, no one bothers them at their table in the garden of the café, and John is shocked when he finally glances at his watch and discovers that it's almost 4PM.

"Jesus! I'm sorry, Bill, I've taken over your day."

"That's OK." Bill rises, putting his hand on John's shoulder. "Didn't have anything to do this afternoon anyway. I'd better go now though, was supposed to be getting some stuff for tonight. We're having a barbecue – it's Elaine's birthday."

"Really? Well, have a nice time and give her my best wishes, if she remembers me. And thanks for the chat – it's really helped." _More than you know_ , he thinks, but doesn't say.

"It's OK. We must keep in touch – go out for a drink from time to time. And John – I really _am_ sorry, you know? About what you've been through. I hope that things get better for you."

"I hope so, too." _God, I really hope so._

They shake hands outside the café, and John turns in the direction of the path that will lead him to the top of Baker Street.

"John?"

He turns back. Bill is looking strangely hesitant.

"Um, I was wondering whether you'd like to come tonight? To the barbecue, I mean. Elaine wouldn't mind – we've got some friends coming over and she would like to see you – she does remember you."

It's very tempting. Bill lives in a pleasant, affluent area of north London now and, from memory, his culinary skills were legendary, so it should be a good 'do. And he has a memory of Elaine, Bill's then-fiancée, as being a warm and friendly woman. Also, John can't remember when he last socialised with 'normal' people – takeaways with mad consultant detectives, teas with dangerous older brothers and beers with cynical Yarders don't really count.

But then… should he _really_ be bringing his particular brand of problems into the lives of this pleasant couple and their young child? He knows he's not a safe person to be around – what if someone follows him to his friend's house?

He hesitates a little, but then shakes his head firmly. "Thanks, that's really kind of you. But I probably shouldn't – I've got something going on at the moment that I need to focus on. Some other time, perhaps?" _When I'm not dealing with a homicidal maniac with an unhealthy obsession with my supposedly dead flatmate._

Bill looks regretful, but almost slightly relieved as well. Perhaps he was also concerned about the impact on his wife and kids.

"That's OK, John, bit short-notice and all that. Another time would be great. It's probably just as well." The last words are muttered, and John's not absolutely sure he's heard right, but Bill raises his voice again, "I've got your number now, so I'll be in touch. Bye!"

"Yeah, bye," John echoes and turns away again, feeling slightly bereft. He makes a mental note to ring Bill when the case is solved, and then his thoughts fly once more to Mycroft's file and the next potential victims. He wonders what Lestrade is up to and feels slightly guilty for not taking the file over to New Scotland Yard earlier today.

A few yards from 221B, his mobile rings. He looks at the name in surprise – can the DI read his mind now?

"John?" Lestrade's voice sounds strained. "Do you remember the names you gave me last night?"

"Yeah – Ryan Ellis, wasn't it? And Samir Hamid?"

"Yeah, that's the one – Samir Hamid."

"What about him?" John feels his heart sink – he's sure he knows the answer before Greg continues.

"He's just been found dead in an abandoned factory in Finsbury Park. Usual method, same message. But no warning this time – we only found out because Sally was investigating a robbery in the area." Greg's voice is terse.

"What – just now? This afternoon? But – but I thought he normally hit at night, in the dark?" John speeds his steps up, almost running now to get back to the flat.

"Yes, he does normally. But it's definitely the same person."

"Fuck." John is thinking quickly as he sprints, bad leg forgotten. "You know what this means, Greg?"

"Yeah, he's broken his pattern." John realises that Greg's slightly clipped tones are due to his barely-controller anger. The DI hates to be wrong-footed by a criminal. But worse than that, they alone share the uncomfortable knowledge that John gave him Samir's name hours ago, and that, if Greg had acted sooner, a man's life might have been saved.

"No! Yes, it does, of course, but what I meant was that the killer now knows we're onto him." John takes the stairs two at a time and bursts into the flat. He grabs at the concealed file, sending Sherlock's papers flying everywhere. "He must know that Mycroft's given us some information. He knows that Mycroft's people have guessed who his next victims are, and he's trying to get the job finished before we trace them. Greg, we've got to get to this other guy first."

"We're onto it. That's why I rung you – I need that file. _Now_."

"Yes, of course, I'll bring it over –."

"No." Greg cuts him off, firmly. "I'll send someone over to collect it from you. I want you to stay in, John. Keep your door locked and only open it to Dimmock – he's on his way now. Tell Mrs Hudson. The guy knows you're the connection between the Yard and Mycroft, so he may be after you too."

"If he was going to get me, he'd have done it by now," John argues. "OK, I'll wait for Dimmock, but I'm coming back with him. I can help you."

"No, you _can't_ , John. You need to keep out of it now, for your own sake. Let us deal with it from now on." Greg is muttering under his breath. "This is all my fault, I should never have brought you into it. If something happens to you too…"

He breaks off suddenly. "Look, John, I'm at the scene in Finsbury Park at the moment, and I've got to get back to the Yard. I'll speak to you later."

"No, wait, Greg, damn it, you can't just keep me out of it now –."

The line goes dead. John stares at it in disbelief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note about Bill Murray – I know that in that wonderful blog on the Internet for John H. Watson, Bill Murray does appear – he's written comments on the cases and talks about meeting John for drinks, so they are clearly still in touch. But for the purposes of this story, I wanted John to have not seen Bill for a long time – I wanted to give an impression that he'd cut himself from his past. So, I'm not going mad – well not much!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should point out, with regard to this chapter that, although I know London well, I'm much more familiar with central and north London. I really don't know the area I describe below, so I apologise to any readers if it doesn't resemble your reality. The industrial estate and company that I mention are fictional and the street and house that John is led to don't resemble anywhere in particular, although London is full of similar locations. Also, I'm not much of a techie, and the application that I mention in relation to John's mobile is totally made up, as is the name of the software that the police use! I've no idea if such an application exists, although it's always possible.
> 
> Also, it's a minor thing, but when I wrote this, I didn't know that Anderson's first name was Phillip...hence the random "Dave" mentioned in the chapter!

John stares at his mobile for a moment before flinging it across the room in fury.

_Damn_ Lestrade! How dare he try to keep John locked up in here? As if he's just some stupid civilian who needs protection, when in fact he's been looking after himself his _whole life_ , no matter what Mycroft might think. And what makes Greg think that sitting around in 221B Baker Street is any safer than being out on the street trying to bring a criminal to justice?

Is Greg trying to distance himself from John now – is he afraid that it'll come out that John has been helping him and that he made a mistake in not acting on John's information sooner? John hopes not – he's pretty sure he knows Greg better than that, and the DI has always been scrupulously honest, but he's not so sure now.

He stops his furious pacing and stands still, breathing hard. He's got just a few minutes before Dimmock arrives for the file…

He flicks through it, looking for the sheets on Ryan Ellis. When he finds them, he grabs his notebook and starts scribbling information down as quickly as he can.

He's only three quarters of the way through the dense pages of facts when he hears Mrs Hudson's voice calling from the bottom of the stairs. "Are you there, John? There's a nice young policeman at the door."

" _Damn_ ," he mutters and then, raising his voice, "OK, Mrs Hudson, I'll be right there."

There's nothing for it. He quickly notes down a few more possible locations, stuffs the page back into the file and hurries down the stairs. Sure enough, Dimmock is standing at the door, looking a little uncomfortable. He's probably one of the few Yarders left that can be trusted to pick up evidence about a murder investigation from a member of the public without giving Greg away to the Commissioner.

John passes over the file, giving Dimmock a small smile. The detective nods, reminds them of Lestrade's advice to stay in and hurries off.

"Can I get you a cup of tea, dear?"

"No thanks, Mrs Hudson. Look – I might need to go out, but make sure you stay in, and don't open the door to anyone, just in case." Part of him feels a little guilty about leaving his landlady unprotected but, if he's right, the danger should follow him.

"Out? But John, the policeman just said –."

"I know, Mrs H, but there's something I have to do." He glances back up the stairs. "I'll be in for a bit longer, though."

"Well, you know what you're doing, I'm sure. Do you want a snack before you go?" She gives him her usual fond smile; in Sherlock's absence he's become very much her 'boy', and she's always trying to fatten him up with cakes and biscuits.

He shakes his head, giving her a vague smile, and hurries back up the stairs. He needs to look at what he's got and try to work out where Ellis might be. He knows – he just _knows_ – that the killer is going to strike again tonight, and there's no way he can just sit around and wait for it to happen. This might be the best chance they will get to catch him.

He glares at his scribbled notes. Where the _hell_ can he start? The kid is as slippery as they come – no fixed abode, only vague links to various crime scenes. He was arrested once and charged with possession, gave his mum's address in Tooting for his court appearance, received a warning and disappeared from sight once more. If he'd been found to be actually distributing, it might have been a different story, but nothing would stick. John remembers that the file contained pictures of him in apparently casual meetings with various members of a gang of notorious international drug smugglers that has so far resisted all attempts by New Scotland Yard and MI6 to bring them down.

Mycroft's file had contained a list of dates, times and locations of sightings over a two year period. John powers up his laptop, goes to the Bing Maps website and starts typing the location post codes in, noting various locations around South London. He's been sighted in Lewisham, Camberwell, Brixton, Streatham, Balham… Usually spotted meeting in greasy spoon cafes, once on Clapham Common. He's a skinny bloke, about mid-twenties, with close-shaven blond hair, usually dressed in fairly unremarkable scruffy jeans and leather jackets. Just like any other young man in South London. The only unusual thing about him noted by Mycroft's agent is that he walks with a distinctive limp, courtesy of a bike accident and a broken ankle that didn't heal perfectly.

"Might be more helpful if they'd included a film illustrating his limp," John mutters, scratching his head.

He keeps on going patiently through the postcodes. The two last ones that he'd managed to scribble down were in locations in Battersea, the first at a newsagents at the river end of Queenstown Road, close to the old Power Station; the second at an industrial estate near Battersea Park Station.

John frowns at these last two addresses on the map. They're the closest together by far, and Ellis was seen at the second address two days after the first, which suggests a bit of a pattern.

He checks out the times. Ellis must be doing something else during the day, or perhaps he dosses down somewhere out of sight, because almost all the sightings are at night, usually between 9PM and 3AM. And he was spotted alone at the last location at 10.30PM exactly one week ago.

Well, it's somewhere to start.

He powers down the laptop, rips the relevant page out of his London A-Z and pulls on his jacket – after a humid day, the temperature has dropped and it's clouded over, so he suspects it may rain later. He picks up his mobile and is about to shove it in his pocket when, after a moment's hesitation, he dials Greg's mobile number.

It rings for a while and then goes to answerphone.

"Greg? John here. Look, I know you don't want me involved, but I think I might have a lead. It's Southend Industrial Estate, right by Battersea Park Station. I'm heading there now. If you get this, you might want to send a team, just in case. I've got a feeling he may show up around 10ish. Don't worry, I won't try to contact him. I'm only going to take a look. Anyway, I – hopefully, you'll get this and I'll see you there? OK, then."

He rings off and is about to put his phone away when he has a sudden inspiration and opens up his laptop again.

There's an application on his phone that he hasn't used for a while – a tracking device that will allow emergency services to locate his phone almost instantly using web-based mapping software. Sherlock had put it on there once as an experiment, not long after their encounter with Moriarty at the pool. John, who was on a date that evening, hadn't been told it was there and wasn't massively amused after they returned to the flat and were engaged in an enthusiastic snogging session when the detective had suddenly burst in and enthusiastically informed his date exactly where she'd been and at what time for the entirety of their evening. As it was a first date, she'd instantly formed the impression that he was living with a stalker and had left shortly after, having politely turned down his suggestion of a second date.

As he recalls, John had shouted at Sherlock and thrown his phone down, ordering him to remove the software application, before storming off to bed in a deeply annoying state of unrelieved arousal. As it happened, Sherlock had somehow forgotten to do so or had become distracted by something else, and John hadn't known how to remove it properly. Sally had shown him how to disable it at the mapping website, so he'd had to content himself with doing that – and he'd had to keep logging back into the site to do so again as, for some reason, Sherlock had kept reactivating it. John had appreciated the thought, recognising it as his flatmate's rather ham-fisted attempt to protect him in the event of future kidnappings, but he _really_ didn't want his every move monitored. Mycroft's cameras were bad enough.

Anyway, it might be useful, especially as he knows the police now automatically check the mapping software when calls come in from registered mobiles. He logs in, locates his number and activates it. Then he stashes his phone in his jacket pocket, having first ensured that the tone is set to vibrate only, just in case Greg happens to ring back. He finally leaves the flat, hesitating briefly by Mrs Hudson's door. Reassured by the sound of a game show on her television, he goes out.

It takes longer than he expected to get to Battersea, and it's already nearly 9PM when he hurries out of the station. He glances automatically at the hulk of the power station to his left, standing out against the greying sky by the dark river. He can almost _smell_ the rain in the air – there's going to be a downpour soon. He turns up the collar of his rather inadequate jacket, glances at his watch again and sprints towards the industrial estate.

He doesn't know this area all that well, so he has to consult his ripped out A-Z page, but eventually he finds what he's looking for. He searches his memory of the file to recall the name of the warehouse that Ellis was seen near, and spends some time cautiously walking around the estate, looking for a name that might ring a bell. The site is deserted – clearly the workers left some hours ago, and there's only empty lorries and vans on the streets outside the locked buildings.

John stops for a moment, straining his ears for the sound of footsteps. He's reminded of his night time walk back from Bart's – was that really only five nights ago? But this time, there's nothing. If he _is_ being followed by that tall, lithe shadow, he (or she) is being extremely careful not to be noticed this time.

The first rain drops start to fall and he shivers involuntarily, thinking longingly of cosy 221B. He's just beginning to reflect on how crazy this whole expedition is and wondering whether he shouldn't just head back home when he hears some quiet footsteps somewhere ahead of him.

He keeps absolutely still and tries to map the sound, straining to hear through the patter of rain drops. Somewhere up ahead, around the left hand corner, he thinks – and coming this way. He starts to move very slowly, pressing himself against a brick wall, his eyes darting around looking for potential hiding places.

There! Just ahead there's a slightly recessed doorway. He darts into the safety of its darkness just as a man appears from around the corner, just a few metres away.

John keeps absolutely still as the man looks automatically down the road. It's not much of a hiding place, and he'll be in trouble if the guy turns down his road. However, he just passes over John's road and continues along the crossing road.

John lets out a shaky breath. When he's sure the man won't look back, he darts out of the doorway and runs as quietly as possible across the road to the opposite corner. He peers cautiously around the corner and sees the man again, some twenty yards ahead and walking away from him.

He pulls out his phone and snaps a quick photo of the man from the back. It won't be much good without a flash in the dim light and falling rain, though. The man is slim, seems young and is wearing a black leather jacket and jeans. His head is covered with a dark green knitted hat, but there's something else that gets John's attention. The man walks with a distinct limp – he drags his right leg slightly. Looks like a muscle injury from his bike accident that didn't receive sufficient physio.

The man glances behind him, and John whips his head back around the corner and waits, counting to ten. When he looks around again, the man has walked on and is almost out of sight – the road bends around to the right.

John takes another deep breath and steps out onto the other road. He's pretty sure who it is, but he needs to make certain before calling Greg out on a fool's errand that might get the DI into even more trouble.

He moves slowly, silently along the road, wondering what he'll do if the man looks around again. He's lucky though, and manages to keep the man just in sight all the way along the curving road.

At the next cross junction, the man goes straight across the road towards a poorly lit warehouse. There's a large bay door and an ordinary door in the wall to the right of it. The man makes for this smaller door, opens it and disappears inside, leaving the door open behind him.

John makes a dash for it, running towards the warehouse. He spots an alleyway to the right of the open door and sprints into it. Once in the safely of darkness, he leans over, bracing his hands on his thighs and gasping with the sudden exertion. As his lungs start to recover, he makes yet another mental note to haul himself down to the gym at the earliest opportunity.

Once his breath is under control, he peers out of his hiding place. The door is just around the corner and he sidles along the wall, his heart beating wildly. He reaches the open door and peers through the crack between the door and the wall, straining to make out any movement within. It's a scruffy wooden door with a glass panel in the upper section that has been smashed in, leaving jagged pieces of glass sticking up in the wood.

Once more, he gets lucky. The man is quite close to the open doorway, leaning against the wall nearest to John and smoking a rollup. John can see him in profile – he can just make out a pale neck above the turned-up leather collar and, more importantly, the hat has ridden up a little and he can see the gleam of short blond hairs at the back of his neck.

John backs away quickly, back into the alleyway, glancing at the sign at the front of the building as he does so. He backs some way back along the alley too, feeling his way along the rough brick with his hands until he's sure that he can't be seen in the dim street lights.

He digs out his mobile and scrolls to Greg's mobile number. Once more the phone rings and rings and finally goes to answerphone. He frowns. This is not typical behaviour for the DI – he's far more inclined to leap on his mobile like a Rottweiler on a bone the very moment it rings.

He hangs up, not leaving a message. There's another option. He thumbs through his entries to find Greg's office number.

This time, it's picked up.

" _Hello, DI Lestrade's office_." It's a female voice.

"Is Greg there?" he whispers, as quietly and clearly as he can.

" _John? Is that you?_ " It's Sally Donovan.

"Sally, where's Greg? Got some important information for him."

" _John, where are you?_ "

"Look, I'm in Battersea. Look up my number on _MobTracker_ ; it's activated there. Sally, this is really important – I've got to talk to Greg immediately."

" _You can't, it's impossible_."

"Come _on_ , Sally, don't fuck me around," he whispers as loudly as he dares. "It's vital I speak to him."

" _You really can't John, you don't understand_." Her voice rises, and he realises, belatedly, that she sounds a bit frantic. " _Greg was knocked down earlier this evening. He was just leaving a scene at Finsbury Park. It was a hit-and-run driver_."

He reels against the wall, feeling the nausea in the pit of his stomach. _Dear Christ, not Greg…_

"Oh, god, Sally, is he – is he going to be OK?"

" _I don't know. It wasn't – it looked pretty bad. He wasn't conscious, they thought there might be a head injury._ " He can hear by the rawness in her voice that she's been crying. _"John, I've got your location, what're you doing there_?"

He closes his eyes, thinking hard. Right now, he has no other option but to trust her.

"Sally, look, it's about the serial killer. I've tracked down the guy who might be his next victim. It's at a furniture warehouse called _Housemans_ on the Southend Industrial Estate. I'm not sure, but I think that the killer might strike tonight."

To his everlasting relief, she reacts to this without asking for further instructions. Sometimes, with all the trouble over Sherlock, he forgets that she's a bloody good officer in her own right.

" _OK, we'll get a team to you. John, don't do anything and try to keep out of sight. Don't try to interfere if he turns up_."

"OK, I'll try to –."

"Don't move, _sunshine_."

John freezes in place. There's something cold nicking the side of his throat and a hand forces his left hand behind his back.

"Drop that. And let's have the other hand." The voice is harsh, unyielding.

John drops his phone to the ground – it's still connected and he can hear Sally's disembodied voice: " _John, are you still there? John? Can you hear me?_ " Then her voice is cut off abruptly and he hears the crunch of a boot stamping on his phone. He feels a stab of loss like a pain through his body – Sherlock's last texts were stored on that phone. A vision of Sherlock sprawled over the sofa borrowing his phone to send a text flashes before him. It's another mini-bereavement.

"Move."

He puts his other hand behind his back, as instructed, and a cold hand grabs it, holding both wrists together. A knee in the small of his back nudges him back up the alleyway; he trips slightly on rubble and feels the wrench in his shoulders as the hand pulls his wrists up behind him sharply to stop him from falling or getting loose. And all the time, he is conscious of the cold metal pressing into the side of his neck. No way to tell if it's an actual knife, but it has a definite edge that could cut, and it's closer to a major artery than he'd like.

The man pushes him around the corner and then swivels him around and tugs him backwards towards the door. John risks speaking.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Shut up, _pig_."

"You've got it wrong - I'm not the police –."

"Yeah, right, like I'm gonna believe _that_."

The metal is removed for a moment but, before John can react, his hands are separated and pulled back together again, and then roughly bound together with something hard and sharp-edged. It feels like the thin but hard plastic strapping usually bound around boxes and furniture. He realises that his arms have been bound either side of the thin wooden upper frame of the door, with his hands in the space made by the broken glass panel.

That's the man's first mistake.

The man walks around to the front, and John sees his assailant for the first time. He's an undernourished young man, thin and pale, with staring eyes. Almost certainly a druggie, though not as raddled as most, possibly because he can't afford the really hard stuff. He lights another rollup and stands, grinning at John with malice glittering in his pale eyes.

"Well, what am I gonna do with _you_ … _pig_?"

He pronounces the words slowly, with an air of deliberate, soft menace. Oh, he's enjoying this moment, quite clearly. The kid doesn't have much power – was probably bullied and abused himself as a small, hungry boy - and he's _loving_ this. He's no hardened criminal, but not a particularly nice individual either; there's a mean streak in this kid.

He doesn't take his eyes off John as he pulls his knife out of his pocket. John can see now that it's a Stanley knife, a little rusty but still effective.

"I've already told you," he begins, looking back at the boy as he carefully feels around with his fingers, trying to find a jagged piece of glass sticking out of the frame. "I'm not a copper. You've got it wrong."

"I _know_ you are. I _saw_ you. You was talking to 'em. You been following me, like that other bloke what tried to talk to me at the club. _Hah_ , he though he fooled me, but I _knew_ he was a pig, just like you."

"I don't know who that was. Look, Ryan – your name _is_ Ryan, isn't it?"

The pale eyes regard him with suspicion. "You think I'm stupid enough to tell you my name?"

Feeling carefully around the edge – ah! There it is. His finger slips as he runs it up the edge, trying to judge the contours of the sharp piece of glass, and he winces slightly at the sting of the cut.

"Ryan, I – I'm not with the police, but I know them. My name is Doctor John Watson, and I'm here to help you. You've got to believe me. I'm not interested in what you're up to here – it's not my concern. But there's – I believe there's someone who wants you dead – and he may be on his way here now."

The kid laughs incredulously. "Someone wants to kill _me_? Oh, yeah, I believe you alright, copper. I s'pose you want me to let you go? And you'll just forget about me, yeah? Sorry, mate, I don't buy it."

"Please, Ryan, you _have_ to believe me." John moves his wrists up very slowly, trying to run the plastic along the edge of the glass. "I swear to you, it's true. That's why I'm here – we think he's trying to kill gang members. He's already killed 13 others –."

" _Shut up_!" The knife is in his face suddenly, very close to his eye. "Just keep your mouth _shut_. Or you'll be sorry. Wanna keep your sight? Then shut up while I phone my boss and decide what to do about you."

The man withdraws a little, turning away slightly as he pulls out his mobile, dialling a number. John takes advantage of this momentary lack of full attention to move his wrists a little faster, sawing at the bindings.

"Mo? Yeah, it's me. I'm at the drop-off, but there's a problem. Gotta a pig here. Yeah, I got 'im tied up. Wha' you want me to do?" Ellis listens intently, turning even further away and moving back towards the dark alleyway.

John can feel the binding starting to give. His wrists are killing him – he can feel the raw skin around the sharp edges of the straps being scraped - but he keeps at it, even faster now. Almost there…

"Right, do you want me to –."

Ellis's voice is cut off abruptly as a large dark figure flies out at him from the alleyway. The man drops his phone and knife, and his hands go up to his neck, scrabbling frantically at the cord that has been looped and tightened around his neck. His attacker pulls harder, and Ellis's booted kicking feet leave the ground briefly.

John twists his hands out of the loosened plastic, ignoring the burn of his scraped wrists, and flings himself at the figure, using his momentum and full weight to try to knock him off balance so he lets go of Ellis. The guy is a giant, even in comparison to Sherlock. John's pretty sure he's the same man who attacked Bex by the canal – and he's about as successful in fighting him this time as he was then.

The man loses his grip on his target, at least. Ellis slumps to the ground, choking and trying to crawl away. The man brings his elbow back and hits John across the face. He's thrown by the impact against the wall, his head whipping around so that his forehead smacks hard against the brick. Before he can react, gloved hands are around his neck; steel fingers crushing his windpipe.

He knows there's no way of this, even as he struggles and tries to pull those hard hands away. His sight begins to blur as his oxygen is cut off. This isn't survivable, he knows it for a fact - and suddenly, he's back _there_ , back in Afghanistan, lying in the hot dirt and staring up at the blue sky in mute astonishment as his life blood flows out of him.

_Please god, let me live… I can't die now, not now, not here… not without seeing him again, not without telling him… Please, god, please, I can't do this…_

His body is jerking instinctively; his heels kicking at the implacable shins, his hands scrabbling hopelessly, trying to get a purchase on those steel wrists. The mist is descending…

Suddenly, like a miracle, the hands loosen and then disappear altogether. John feels the air flowing back into his body and then he is pushed hard against the wall as his attacker falls onto him before slumping sideways onto the ground.

John slithers down the wall onto his shaking knees; his legs unable to support him. Blood is tricking down his head and into his eyes, impeding his vision, and God, his chest is _agony_ as the freezing, burning air bursts into his starved lungs. He tries to wipe the blood out of his eyes, to see through the reddish blur.

"You alright, mate?"

John vomits copiously, heaving his lunch up onto the concrete. He gasps and keeps on heaving, bringing up bitter bile, tears coming into his eyes that clear the blood away to some extent. Having finally emptied his stomach, he turns his head away from the wall and sees Ryan Ellis standing front of him and the unconscious man, a blood-soaked Stanley knife in his hand.

The man slowly looks down at his would-be killer. "Fuckin' 'ell. You was right after all."

He stiffens, looking over his shoulder, and now John can hear it too – sirens and the reflection of flashing blue lights on the rain-soaked street.

Ellis stares at him again and smirks, very slowly. "Well, so long – _pig_." He flicks the knife towards John, turns away and sprints off down the alleyway, just as the first patrol car skids around the corner.

* * *

John sits at the back of the ambulance, propping himself up on the ramp, enduring the sting of antiseptic as the paramedic cleans the wound on his forehead and straps on a temporary dressing. It's the nearest she's been able to get him to the ambulance. He has an irrational fear that if he gets in the back, she'll put an end to their argument about his need for a hospital by simply driving him there. Deep inside, he knows she's right - it's a nasty gash, and he probably needs stitches. His neck is badly bruised, but he doesn't need her to tell him that – he knows he was mere seconds away from serious damage to his windpipe, and he should probably be x-rayed for fractures. Lights are flashed into each eye and the paramedic mutters something about concussion. His wrists look pretty messed up, but he can see that the cuts are fairly superficial.

He feels dizzy and slightly drowsy. The sensible thing would be to comply with her recommendation to go straight to hospital. He can give his statement once he's been patched up.

Somehow sense and John Watson don't seem to go together any more. He can blame Sherlock for that. After all, he reasons, someone had to inherit the detective's general obstinacy and ability to ignore the dangers to his own body in pursuit of a case. Otherwise, Greg Lestrade won't know what to do with himself.

Talking of Greg…

Sally Donovan is talking to the paramedics by the other ambulance, into which the unconscious killer has been taken. As they close the door and start to move away, blue lights flashing, she moves back to John.

"He might survive; they're not sure. That bloke knew what he was doing – slipped the knife right between his ribs. Nicked his lung. You know more about lung punctures than me, but he could die on the way to the hospital, couldn't he?"

"He might. Depends on how stable he is now." That would explain why the man had collapsed so suddenly. The point about sucking lung injuries is that, as soon as Ellis had pulled the knife back out, his victim would find himself unable to breathe properly. He wonders whether the kid had known that it would be such a debilitating wound.

Anyway, it would be a fitting way to go, since the bloke had obviously specialised in choking the air out of his victims. John runs a finger gently over his agonisingly sore neck and finds himself unable to care. Although, of course, it would be useful to get some information out of him before he actually dies. Like who's been paying him.

"By the way, it _is_ Ratko Jovanovic," she comments. "So Interpol was right about him."

It hurts to talk, but he makes an effort. "Sally, what about Greg? Any news?"

She gives him a wry look. "We've been kind of busy trying to get to you as quickly as possible, but we did get an update on the way here. He's in theatre at the moment. Broken leg, cracked ribs, concussion, and some internal bleeding that they're dealing with right now. I've told Control to keep me informed as soon as there's anything new."

"OK." It's an incredible relief to know that Greg has made it this far. He blinks, feeling his sight beginning to blur again. The sounds and sights around him recede; he shakes his head a little, trying to bring the world back into focus. He's conscious suddenly of extreme fatigue soaking into his body. It's the come-down from the adrenaline; the relief… or possibly he _is_ concussed.

"You alright?" Sally puts a hand on his shoulder, her eyes concerned. "You looked… just for a minute there, you seemed to go somewhere else."

"Yeah, I'm OK. And, um, Sally… thanks."

She looks intently at him, but doesn't smile. "You're welcome, John."

He feels the dressing on his forehead and winces. "The other day, what I said… I shouldn't have – I mean, I know you would never betray Greg."

"Wouldn't I?" She's still looking at him, her dark eyes very serious. Rather surprisingly, he finds himself shuffling along a little, and she pulls herself up onto the ramp next to him. They sit quietly for a moment.

"Wouldn't I?" she repeats, staring at the busy forensic team. "I – I don't know, John. I don't know what I've become. I used to be an OK cop. I was excited to be working with Greg in the early days – he was a DS and I was just some dumb constable. And then he made DI and I got promoted and he picked me for his team. I was so proud – I couldn't believe my luck. It was the best moment in my professional career – I felt like I was really _something_ …

"And then there was… _him_." He doesn't have to ask who she's talking about. "Waltzing in, telling us we're all idiots… and Greg would just let him get away with it. I'll never forget what he said, when he first found out about me and Dave, right there at the scene, in front of everyone…"

John glances at her and sees the hurt shining in her eyes. "Greg didn't say a word, and I was so _humiliated_. He didn't even try to stop the…freak. And I – I felt as if he was just disappointed in me. As if my personal life made me less of an officer… I knew he was having problems with his wife. That's why I didn't want him to know about Dave. I was worried about upsetting him, losing his respect. But _he_ – Sherlock – didn't even care. Not for my feelings and not even for Greg's."

"You know you can do so much better than Dave Anderson. You _do_ know that, don't you?"

She sighs. "Yeah, I guess you're right. It's just that it's hard enough for a woman to make it in the Met without working twice as hard as the men. And, you know, there never seems to be enough time to meet anyone. If I _do_ meet someone, they soon get fed up with the interrupted dates and the all-nighters at gory crime scenes… and if I want to talk about it, they don't seem to want to listen. Men generally don't – they don't seem to understand why a woman would want to work in that kind of environment. And sometimes, after a really terrible case, it's so lonely going home to a flat where there's no one to talk to, to let it all out to. I started drinking. By myself. You know how dangerous that is?"

He nods, gazing at the crime scene. He knows.

"And Dave and his wife were having problems, fighting, and she kept going away to her sister's. So he was alone too. And he understands what it's like because he's there – he sees what I see. It – it was never really a relationship, as such. Just someone to have a drink with, someone to have a laugh with, a warm body – just a no-strings, stupid thing. Let's face it, how many police officers manage to maintain a relationship with someone who's never been there – never seen what _we_ see? Look at Greg." She laughs, bitterly. "Is it any kind of surprise that half of us end up screwing the other half?"

He feels a lump in his throat. _Oh, Sally_. There's nothing he can say to comfort her.

"If he – if he dies," her voice is husky; he can hear the tears without looking. "If he dies before I can tell him I'm _so_ sorry..." Her voice fades away, and he feels the tremor in her body.

"He won't," he assures her.

"You can't know that. You don't know – you didn't see him -."

"He _won't_." He's sure of that now. Greg won't – can't die.

The silence between them grows a little tense, and he looks away from her until she jumps up and moves away to talk to the team. There's a small crowd forming beyond the police cordon. Probably locals on their way out to clubs for the evening, attracted to the back streets by the flashing lights and general commotion, standing and staring in the usual ghoulish manner. The paramedic starts wiping antiseptic over the cuts on John's wrists. He lets his eyes run blankly over the curious faces as he hears Sally ordering a couple of officers to move them on. His eyes roam from left to right… then back again towards the left, until his gaze stops on one face.

That face… he knows that face.

And then it comes to him. The man watching the scene with interest is Sebastian Moran. And suddenly John knows who was following him five nights ago.

The onlookers are being moved on by now; there's some drunkenly good-humoured comments being exchanged with the stoical PCs, but slowly the crowd starts to break up.

Moran doesn't move for a moment – he seems fascinated by the small pool of blood and vomit on the ground by the wall. Then, abruptly, he turns his head, looking directly at John and giving him a slight nod. He then turns and walks away and John recognises once more the lithe, light-footed gait of the tall, slim man that he remembers so well from his Camp Bastion days.

Sally comes back to him. "No sign of Ryan Ellis yet, he's probably miles away by now. Well, we'll have to pull him in eventually, whether that bloke dies or not. Anyway, I want you to go to hospital now. You need to get that head looked at."

"Not yet." John's mind is racing. "There's something I need to check out first."

Sally gives him a disbelieving look. "Oh, John, _please_ tell me you're joking. I always credited you with a _bit_ more sense than Freak - Sherlock," she amends, hastily, seeing the glint in his eye. "You might have a head injury. At the very least, you need stitches."

"No, Sally, I'm fine," he says, firmly. "I'm not going to hospital – not just yet. And you can't make me," he adds, seeing the look on her face.

She puts her hands on her hips. "I could arrest you, you know. For withholding information about a murder inquiry."

"You won't."

They stare at each other for a moment, neither prepared to back down. Then Sally sighs, throwing up her hands.

"No, you're right. God forgive me, I must be getting as soft as Greg, but I'm going to bloody well let you walk away. But don't you _dare_ disappear yet," she adds, poking at his chest. "I want a full statement first, and I want you to show me _exactly_ where Jovanovic was when he attached Ellis."

"Sure." He smiles at the paramedic and waves her away as he gets up, wincing a little. She gives him a slightly uncertain look, but backs off at Sally's nod.

As the ambulance drives away slowly, Sally walks over to the wall, her attention distracted by one of the forensic investigators. He notes that Anderson isn't present – he's probably still at the Finsbury Park scene.

John takes his opportunity. He backs up a little, then turns away, strolling casually towards the police cordon and ducking under it. He joins the straggling groups of onlookers being moved on, blending quickly in the small crowd. He moves as quickly and as unobtrusively as possible, leaving the industrial estate behind and emerging onto a brighter main road, populated with pubs and nightclubs. People are dashing into buildings, trying to escape the rain.

He can just make out Sebastian some way ahead. The earlier drizzle has now turned into steady rain, making it difficult to see very far ahead, but Colonel Sebastian Moran was always a distinctive figure – unusually tall and thin for a soldier, with that odd, almost feline grace. The perfect sniper actually – he had an ability to blend into his background and could move incredibly swiftly when he needed to.

He's not moving fast now. He's strolling along, hands stuffed in the pockets of a short smart waterproof coat. He's a striking figure with his blond hair and Germanic features, and he gets some degree of inebriated attention from the clubbers, which he seems to ignore. He doesn't look behind him or even around – he just keeps walking steadily along the road. The crowd appears to part around him, like a fast-flowing river around a solitary rock.

John is not so lucky. As always, he has to fight his way through milling crowds of people who are just that little bit taller than him, murmuring the occasional automatic apology as he tries to keep Moran in sight. He doesn't like to think what he looks like with his blood and bruises and vomit-spattered jeans; he sees one or two curious glances as he pushes his way through.

It's particularly difficult around Battersea Park Station – a tall man steps back suddenly, catching John's injured head with his raised elbow, and he sees stars. He pushes the man away angrily, and mutters a curse as he realises that he's falling behind and has to hurry to catch up. He feels oddly light-headed. Sweat trickles down his spine and he has to breathe deeply, fighting hard to suppress another bout of nausea. This was a really _stupid_ decision.

About two hundred yards on from the station, Moran turns abruptly down a road to the right. John follows cautiously. It's much quieter down here; it's a cul-de-sac of slightly down-at-heel Victorian terrace houses. Nevertheless, he doesn't make so much of an effort to hide. He can't help feeling that Sebastian knows perfectly well that he's there; there's something about the way he's walking so confidently without looking around once.

John's not afraid of Moran. If he _was_ his shadow on that walk back from Bart's and he _had_ intended any harm, he'd have had the perfect opportunity on that occasion. No, it's far more likely that Sebastian has some information for him – information that he can't pass on in front of anyone else.

It's even possible – hope soars briefly – that Sebastian is collaborating with Sherlock. He's the type of man that Sherlock might be able to tolerate working alongside – phenomenally intelligent, calm under fire, coldly efficient. Not the emotional type at all. Yes, Sherlock would appreciate that icy quicksilver mind, no doubt about that. None of that messy, inconvenient caring between friends – Sherlock wouldn't have to worry about 'disappointing' Sebastian, John thinks, bitterly.

The far end of the road is even more disreputable; half the houses are boarded up. Sebastian pauses by the gate of a house before slowing walking up the path to the front door. John stops and waits. There's the scrape of a door opening and then a quiet click as it closes again.

John doesn't move on again immediately. This is folly, and he knows it. His mobile is lying crushed in an alleyway. The police have no idea where he is. He has nothing to defend himself with, not even his trusty Browning, currently locked away in his bedroom. And he's in no condition for a fight – for all he knows, he might be about to collapse from a head injury. He might be walking into a trap – it's even possible that, if he walks into that house, he'll never walk out again.

What would Sherlock do? Stupid example – the consulting detective wouldn't hesitate to rush into danger without a second thought. But then, of course, he knew he had his loyal ex-army doctor – his _pet_ – watching his back and ready to rush in to save him at the last minute. John isn't that lucky, and for a moment, the loneliness of his situation threatens to choke him.

He takes a deep breath, feeling the cool, damp air burning his sore damaged throat. And then he makes his mind up and steps forward.

The house's windows are boarded up; it looks derelict. The lock on the door has been forced at some time in the past, probably by squatters. But then, maybe Sherlock himself has been squatting for three years. Could it be – could this _possibly_ be – his?

He pushes the door open gently and steps over the doorway. He's in a narrow unlit passageway, but he can see by the faint glow of a light coming under the second door on the left.

He lets the door close quietly behind him and walks up the passageway. The house is silent, and there's no sign of habitation apart from that light.

He knocks on the closed door, but there's no reply. Hands trembling - from fear or weakness or excitement he doesn't really know - he grasps the door handle and turns it, opening the door slowly.

The glow is coming from a bare light bulb – so there's still electricity coming into the house. Perhaps it's not as derelict as it first looked. The room is almost bare, though – the only furniture is a dusty old upholstered dining room chair.

"Sebastian?" His voice comes out as a mere croak, and he's not surprised that there's no reply. He opens the door properly, stepping into the centre of the small room.

The door behind him closes abruptly, and something heavy crashes down on the back of his head. All he can do is reflect on just _how_ stupid he's been … and then the world goes black.


	8. Chapter 8

At first, he's only aware of a thumping sound. A dull _thud_ , _thud, thud_. And with each thud comes pain. In pulses. Spikes. With each dull _thud_.

Pain. Waves of it, pulsing through his head, his body, radiating to his limbs. Impossible to detect the source. He groans and squeezes his eyelids together, trying to retreat from it. But then he becomes aware of a more specific pain coming from his arms – from his wrists and shoulders. He tries to shift his shoulders to ease the ache – and realises that he can't move at all.

He risks opening his eyes, and winces as the lights stab at his vision. Surely it wasn't this light before…

The bright light disappears suddenly, leaving him dazed, and he realises that someone has been shining a torch in his eyes, checking his responses. A finger takes the pulse in his neck and then he feels a hand at the back of his head, carefully assessing. It's a competent, compassionate hand and, for a moment, he feels relief at having made it to hospital after all.

But in that case, why does he feel so uncomfortable?

His vision clears and he realises, with a sinking heart, that he's still in the dim shabby room, lit only by the light of a dim bare lightbulb. He's positioned in a dining chair with his arms pulled back and tied behind him to the frame with what feels like rough rope.

 _Oh, for crying out loud_. _Why_ does he keep ending up in this position? It never happened in Afghanistan, where he might have reasonably anticipated being knocked out and tied up by homicidal maniacs. Shoulder wound notwithstanding, it's bloody ironic that he's been in _more_ personal danger since he left the army.

 _And now, here we go again._ His usual survival instincts kick in and he forces himself to calm down and breathe deeply, as he goes about moving his wrists and assessing his range of movement. There's some give in the rope, at least. However, the restrictive position is excruciating for his scarred shoulder, and he shifts again, trying to ease it.

"Shh." The voice comes from behind him. The hand on his head pauses in its investigation and he feels the tickle of someone's breath near his ear. "Don't say anything. Pretend to be unconscious."

The words are a mere murmur, hardly above an expiration, but he recognises that voice – would recognise it anywhere. " _Bill_?"

Bill's hand falls down onto his good shoulder and squeezes it tightly as he moves in front of the chair. John opens his eyes again, looking up in disbelief at his old friend's face.

Bill looks terrible – haggard, white, eyes dark-ringed with horror. " _God_ , John, I'm _so_ sorry… You have no idea. If I'd known it was going to be you…"

"What are you talking about? For fuck's sake, Bill, what's going on – what _is_ this?" He rotates his hands in their bindings, trying to find a weakness.

Bill turns suddenly, looking over his shoulder. He turns back towards John and leans down, putting his hands on his shoulders.

"No time to explain. He's coming back. Look, John, mate, I wish I could explain, but it's – it's just impossible. You've got to understand… he had something on me. Something from _back then_ – he knew about something I did, after you left… and he threatened to tell the authorities. I would've lost _everything_ – my pension, Elaine, our boy… If they knew, if _anyone_ knew what I did back then…"

" _Bill_ ," John hisses his name, trying to get his friend to focus. "You've _got_ to untie me. C'mon, nothing can be as bad as all that. Just get me _out_ of here and we can sort it out –."

"No _time_ , John." Bill's face is agonised. "He'll _find_ me, I know it – wherever I go, he'll find me and he'll kill them, Elaine and my son, and make me _watch_ it, and then he'll go ahead and kill me anyway. He's _dangerous_ , John, so dangerous, you wouldn't understand. He – he's – don't you _see_? I was in his team, and once you're one of his men, you _stay_ one of his men. _Forever_. No way out. Do you understand?"

"Who are you talking about? Who do you mean?" John has his suspicions, but he's still trying to ground Bill; trying to get him to calm down.

Bill puts his face very close to John, and the doctor flinches at the pure terror in his old friend's eyes. " _Moran_."

John swallows. "What's he got on you, Bill? Whatever it is, we can sort it out - I know we can."

"Oh, I very much doubt that, Captain Watson."

Bill stiffens, and his face pales even more, if that's possible. He leans close to John's ear and whispers a word: " _Grief_."

With that single, rather odd, word, he straightens and steps away from John, turning to face Sebastian Moran, who has walked into the room, his hands behind his back, rather as if he's inspecting his troops.

His eyes flicker to John and he nods politely – the perfect officer, as always. Then he turns back to Bill. "I see our friend has regained consciousness."

Bill swallows visibly. "He's awake now, but I can't guarantee for how long. He has another head injury – there may be concussion."

"Ah, yes – the fight with Jovanovic. You were lucky there, weren't you, Watson?"

Sebastian smiles at them both. It's his usual, wide, friendly smile, but John cannot imagine how he ever found it pleasant.

How can Bill be so beholden to this man? What can be so bad that he would turn on his old friend – the same person whose life he saved amidst the hot sands of Afghanistan?

And what about that comment – _once you're one of his men, you stay one of his men_? John recalls that Sebastian was always loyal to his men, to the point of fanaticism. An attack on one of them was an attack on them all – and on their colonel. How far did that loyalty extend? Did – _would_ – Bill Murray, former nurse, sturdy comrade, _kill_ for his colonel?

Sebastian is regarding him with interest, almost as if he's following John's thoughts. _That_ would be just his bloody luck – bad enough to have lived with a mad flatmate who could anticipate his every response. John reacts just as he used to with Sherlock - he tries to empty his mind; keep his face neutral.

Sebastian smiles again, giving a John of nod of… approval?

Abruptly, his attention turns back to Murray. "OK, Murray, you're done here. Best get back to that lovely wife of yours. I don't imagine she'll be very happy about you leaving her party, mm? Perhaps some flowers might be in order. What do you think, Watson – you're the expert on pacifying women, aren't you?"

Bill flashes John a guilty look. "Don't you need me to, uh – keep an eye on him?"

"That won't be necessary." The words are clipped, military. Sebastian hasn't lost his natural authority and, when Bill still lingers, he raises an eyebrow and moves his right hand into view. There's a pistol in it, which puts an end to Murray's hesitation.

"OK, I'll – I'll be off then," he mutters, backing away.

He may have glanced in John's direction again before he left, but John didn't see. He'd turned his head away, unable to bear the sight of Captain William Murray – _his_ Bill Murray – behaving like a whipped dog.

John and Sebastian Moran gaze at each other as the front door closes.

It's Moran who breaks the silence first. "No doubt you're wondering what is going on… what _has_ been going on." It's a statement, not a question, and he leans against the wall, arms folded, his gun turned away from his prisoner. Completely relaxed – and John realises that he's been in this position of authority over a prisoner before, many times perhaps.

"I think I can guess." John's voice is surprisingly steady. He's gone into war mode once more: _appease the hostage-taker, keep him talking, look for escape options_ … "Or, at least, I now know that _you_ were the one who paid Jovanovic to kill those men."

"Well, how _clever_ of you to work that out, Watson," Moran sneers. "Although you had no idea, did you? Right up to this evening, you thought I might be a friend. Typical military mindset – he's an old comrade, so he must be on my side. Same with Murray. Tell me, why _did_ you follow me? Without telling your friends where you were going? What did you want from me?"

John's mind is working furiously. What advantages does he have? None, unless, by some wonderful chance, one of Mycroft's minions has been following him. And then there's the binding – it's definitely got some give. He might be able to free his hands for a second time tonight… if he can find a sharp edge, or work out what type of knot it is. What type of knot would someone like Murray use… or was he tied up by Moran?

"I wanted to know why you were following me five nights ago." It's a gamble, but John knows he's right. He remembers that slender shadow darting away with cat-like grace, unseen by Lestrade in the dark street.

"You mean after you wrote your little message?"

"You knew about my messages, then?"

Moran laughs. "Oh, John. I was _responsible_ for them. Who do you think painted those little _reminders_ at the scenes? _Ratko_? The moron could hardly write in his own language. He only wrote that last one because I couldn't be there. My intention was to entice you in the direction of the crime scene. You see, I know you too well, John. I knew you would sense that you were being followed – and that you would respond like any ex-soldier. You would try to draw me out in a dark location. What luck that the murder scene just happened to be right on your route, eh?"

"And the phone messages to the police, the warnings – that was you too, I suppose?" John asks.

Moran looks blank. "Messages? No, although they were certainly useful. I have no idea who sent them, presumably some well-meaning individual, but they were always just too late, weren't they?"

"Lucky for you," he mutters, wriggling around, trying to find a sharp edge to the rickety chair that he might be able to rub the rope against.

"Oh, and by the way, just in case you were wondering, Ratko is dead."

John smiles wryly. "He didn't make it to hospital then."

"Oh, he made it there… but not beyond the ambulance bay." Sebastian looks off into the distance with a private smile. "It's always useful to have a friend or two working for the emergency services. You never know when you might need a helping hand… I had rather hoped that Ellis would finish him off at the scene, which would have been neater, but there you go. I suppose we can't have _everything_."

"You have friends everywhere, it would seem." John continues to look steadily into Moran's face as he shifts his hands, trying to find a weakness. _What was it Bill said, just before he left? Grief… What did he mean? That he was grieving? What else?_

Moran shrugs. "The main challenge for any country with an armed force is that you tend to end up with a large number of discharged men and women who have been trained to kill from a young age…and often have no idea what to do with their skills once they've left the services. Some of them are skilled drivers – where better to find work than within the ambulance services? And I've found … niches for others too. IT experts, security, bodyguards. Many of them come to me for advice."

"I see," John murmurs. "And _you've_ found a niche too, I suppose."

Moran gives him a sharp look, then turns abruptly, striding across the room and back. "They _trust_ me. The top brass couldn't give a fuck what happens to the average, ordinary squaddie. All they want are young, impressionable kids who can be trained to kill without question. Years ago, we were brave enough to call them what they are – _cannon fodder_. When their value has diminished, the army's quite happy to kick them out on their arses. Why should they care if the bloke can't find a job?"

His tone is strangely bitter. He stops pacing, glancing at John. "Do you have any idea how many discharged service men try to kill themselves? How many succeed? And that's just those with no traumatic injuries – nothing _visible_ , anyway. Look at _you_ – years working part-time and in locum roles, hardly able to meet your rent – and _you're_ a professional man. How difficult can it be for a kid who went into the services straight from school, at the age of sixteen, with limited or no qualifications? Oh, I know, the army _tries_. Training, careers advice, what have you. But there are always those who slip through the net. And then there are those who received a dishonourable discharge…"

He gives John a meaningful look.

"Ah," John responds softly, keeping his face trained on Moran even as he thinks furiously. _Grief… grief… grief… grief knot? Aha - that's what Bill was trying to tell him._ "I was wondering when that would come up in the conversation. This is about Rob Marshall, isn't it?"

Moran's expression is wry. "You think I disagreed with you about his discharge?"

"The thought had occurred," John admits. _Grief knot_. He racks his brain trying to remember what he learned about knots in basic training. The grief knot looks impressive, but can be slipped, if the rope ends are moved in the right direction. But it's got to be _right_ – if he twists them the wrong way, he'll inadvertently make the knot tighter. And he can't recall exactly _how_ to move them.

Moran shakes his head. "You're quite wrong. Rob Marshall was _wrong_ to do what he did – no matter how objectionable that individual was. There have to be rules in warfare. Prisoners have a right to be treated in accordance with the Geneva Convention. Rob failed to comply with that, and deserved to be punished. At any time, did I appear to disagree with your decision to achieve justice for the prisoner?"

John thinks back. "You didn't, that's true. But you clearly disagree _now_ with the way I approached the situation – isn't that so?"

Moran doesn't answer for a moment – he just stands, watching John with interest. Then, much to John's surprise, he turns away and fetches another rather rickety chair from the corner of the room. He places this in front of his prisoner and sits down.

"You know, I was planning to kill you immediately," he continues, "- but what the hell, why not? We may as well talk about this. You might agree with me… when you know all the facts. And you're going to die anyway – let me point that out now, so you can prepare yourself."

This is all delivered in a light, conversational manner that sends a chill down John's spine and makes his shift his hands even more. Moran seems unaware of his struggles or, if he is, perhaps he doesn't much care. He perhaps knows that John's attempts to release himself are futile.

"Well," he prompts. "I'm listening. I have no choice really, do I? Is this how you normally get people to listen to your views, because I can tell you now, it's pretty effective."

Moran continues to observe him without smiling at John's poor attempt at a joke. "You are right, John – I did disagree. _I_ wouldn't have reported Rob _immediately_. I would have approached his commanding officer first to ascertain the full facts."

"In other words, I should have spoken to you first."

"Yes, _me_. I know what you're thinking. That I'd have covered it up out of some misguided loyalty to one of my best snipers. And yes, I _might_ have, but he wouldn't have gone unpunished. Tell me, where do you think he is now?"

"I, well, I have no idea -."

Moran raises a hand. "Let me save you the trouble. You have no idea because you have never bothered to find out. Rob Marshall is dead. He shot himself in the head six weeks after his discharge. The day before his twentieth birthday."

John swallows uncomfortably. "I'm sorry to hear that, but it makes no difference to my decision."

"Doesn't it? No, I suppose not. Would it have made a difference if you'd known him the way I did? If you'd known that he was an orphan, brought up in care, who joined the army at the age of sixteen because he had no other options? That he joined up the same day as Callum Jones? That he and Callum were inseparable; that Callum became the family he'd never had? Did you also know that Callum wasn't a particularly strong member of my team? Rob _was_ – he was a brilliant marksman - and the two of them did _everything_ together, they came as a unit. I accepted that because Rob worked better when he was with Callum, and they were an excellent team. Callum was good at anticipating what Rob wanted him to do without words – very useful in a noisy combat situation."

His eyes are fixed on John's as he continues, very quietly. "There's a type of relationship that our military superiors disapprove of very strongly. Particularly in combat situations. I think you know what I mean, John. At some point, in Afghanistan, their relationship went from being something platonic to something more intimate. It happens, of course, you and I have both seen it. You put young healthy men in a stressful situation for weeks or months on end, with very few women around them, and they sometimes turn to each other for mutual relief. The men involved don't _necessarily_ identify as homosexual in civilian life, but it's an outlet, and when you get two men as trusting of each other as these two were – well it happens. Usually, we try to turn a blind eye, as long as they're discrete and don't resort to sexually harassing men who are not interested."

John fears he knows where this is going. He shifts, slightly awkwardly – and not because he has a problem with the topic. He _does_ know what Sebastian is talking about – he saw it enough at Bastion, and had had enough sense and compassion to avert his eyes and keep his mouth shut. No, his awkwardness _now_ is because he was never quite sure whether or not Moran was himself gay. It wouldn't have bothered John if the colonel _had_ been openly gay – it wouldn't have made him any less of a soldier in John's opinion. But, if he _is_ , this can't be an easy topic for him to discuss, and John fears that some repressed anger may make the man more trigger-happy.

Moran continues, leaning forward intently, his gun rested loosely on his thighs.

"Callum wasn't gay – for him, it was a bit of fun, and he'd played around with girls at home. But it was different for Rob. He fell in love – or at least he believed that he had - and he grew just a little too intense. He scared Callum, who tried to back off. They fought – and the teamwork they'd established was fatally damaged."

He sighs. "I had concerns. I was still debating whether I should split them up, perhaps move Callum to a role better suited to his skills, when the incident happened. You know that Callum was fatally wounded and was evacuated home to die in the presence of his family. And you know how badly Rob took it. I'm not going to go over things you already know. But what you did _not_ know – did not fully appreciate – was the degree to which Rob blamed himself for Callum's death. Every blow he landed on that prisoner was aimed at _himself_. He wanted to die, wanted to suffer for what he'd done. _I_ knew that. The guards who didn't try to stop him _also_ knew that – or at least they recognised the signs of a man in a downward spiral. But _you_ – you didn't know that. All you knew were the facts."

John winces. "I didn't want to hurt him – I _liked_ Rob."

Moran smiles at him without humour. "Of course you did. You liked _everyone_ , and everyone liked _you_. Good old John Watson. Excellent surgeon, calm under pressure, kind, self-deprecating, a strong moral centre. _Have you any idea how fucking annoying you were_?"

This last comment is a shout that echoes around the quiet house, shocking after the quiet tone, and John jumps, almost knocking his chair over.

Moran laughs, harshly. "Oh, I'm sorry, did I startle you? I keep forgetting – you're just a _civilian_ now." The contempt drips from his voice at the word.

"So are _you_ ," John points out.

"Ah, well, _officially_ , yes. In some ways – in the ways that really _matter_ – I never left." Moran gestures towards the door. "As you saw from Murray's behaviour, my men are _still_ my men. They still follow orders."

"What do you have on Bill?"

"Do you expect me to reveal that? Do you really want to know?" Moran shrugs. "I suppose you think it doesn't really matter, as you're not going to walk out of here. But he wouldn't want _you_ , of all people, to know… and I respect that."

"So, what's all this about?" John is beginning to lose his patience. It's increasingly clear to him that he can't work out how to untie his hands, and he's sure as hell not going to sit and indulge the ramblings of a madman. "You're going to kill me because you think I'm responsible for the death of one of your men?"

"Is that what you think?" Moran demands, looking oddly disappointed in his prisoner. "Haven't you been listening to a word I've been saying?"

"Well, why else am I here?"

" _Because you never learn_!"

John is prepared for the manic scream this time and doesn't flinch.

Moran jumps up as if he cannot bear to keep still any more – and that's frighteningly familiar to John. He's beginning to realise that Moran isn't actually mad, not in the way Moriarty was, anyway. Sebastian Moran shares Sherlock's restless, almost manic, energy, the same unfocused frustration of a mind distracted by small, unimportant matters … but that alone doesn't make him mad. What _is_ it that compels geniuses to jump over that moral chasm – to make the decision that killing with intention is acceptable? How is it that Sherlock can cling, however precariously, to the right moral choices, when others with equally brilliant minds are unable to?

"I accepted the decision. It's not the choice _I_ would have made – I would've covered up for him but got him transferred to a more menial position as a punishment. But I _did_ accept what you did – it was the _moral_ decision, the _right_ decision... if you didn't know the circumstances. I made allowances, because I knew you didn't know him as _I_ knew him. And I thought you'd learn from your mistakes when you were ostracised by your colleagues. I know you suffered for a while, being ignored, being avoided by the people you thought were your friends. I took steps to put an end to it when I thought you'd had enough of a chance to realise what you'd done. You remember that, no doubt."

John remembers the day that Moran had deliberately walked over to him, to shake his hand and engage him in friendly conversation… and how the hostility had melted away after that public meeting.

He paces in front of John. "You see, I _do_ give people chances. I give them an opportunity to learn from their mistakes. And if they _don't_ learn the lesson – well," he shrugs. "I can't be responsible for what happens to them."

He points at John. "You _could_ have learnt, but you _didn't_. I could tell. You just carried on, as smugly assured of your own worth as you ever were. Not even a moment's remorse. You could have asked me how he was; you could've told me that you were sorry that you caused trouble for me – but you didn't."

"I wasn't aware that you _had_ any trouble," John ventures, cautiously. "You seemed to carry on as before."

Moran gives an incredulous laugh. "Of _course_ , I did. What else did you expect Colonel Sebastian Moran to do? Have you _any_ idea how much your action fucked with my team? Of course you don't – your type never does. It's all about the individual, isn't it? Individual needs, individual sensibilities. People like you should _never_ be allowed to enter the military. You have no notion of team dynamics – of how small things can affect the efficiency of the entire group. I had to contend with low morale, fear, bitterness – not just towards you, but directed at all officers. You think the average squaddie gave two fucks about what happened to that nasty little shit? As far as they were concerned, he had it coming. Rob was their hero. I had to rebuild my entire team and get them working together once more – not easy when I couldn't be seen to be against the bringing of serious allegations by a fellow officer."

"I never knew any of that. You never said."

"I shouldn't have _had_ to. If you were ever a _real_ soldier, you'd have known it without being told. Look at you," Moran sneered. "Softened by civilian life now, yes, but you were never a _real_ soldier. Not in my book. You were just playing at it. It was a way of escaping your background – and oh, how you wanted to escape _that_ , didn't you, John? An absentee father, a mother who might as well have been absent for all the good she did you, a difficult, demanding sister with substance abuse issues. You just _had_ to escape your environment. An impoverished childhood, with no money to pay for a medical degree – but then, the army helped you out there, didn't it? And you wanted so badly to _be_ somebody, didn't you? A doctor _and_ an officer – well, what a social climber you are. What a _hero_."

Moran smiles. "You know the biggest irony? Your _friend_ , the great Mr Sherlock Holmes? He really _was_ somebody. Socially, I mean – I'm not referring to his undoubted abilities as a detective. How much did you ever learn about his background? Not much, I suspect. Holmes came from a rich, privileged background – and he didn't even care. He turned his back on it. Do you think Holmes was impressed by your impressive education, your professional background, your officer status? He didn't care less about that kind of thing – in fact, he scorned it. Your pathetic little attempts to prove that you were _better_ than anyone else – morally superior? He would have _despised_ them. He would have despised _you_ for believing that your profession and education made a difference - that it raised you above your upbringing."

John feels a prickle of cold perspiration going down his spine. "That's not true. He wasn't interested in _what_ I was – just in me as a person. We were friends. We cared for one another." Even as he speaks, he knows it sounds lame. After all, how would he know what Sherlock thought? He only has that one incident in Dartmoor to cling to as proof that Sherlock even saw him as a friend.

Moran gives him a pitying look. "You see? That's what I mean. People like you – you never _learn_ from your mistakes. Your problem, John, is that you never learned how to read people. You didn't understand Sherlock Holmes. Oh, you thought you did – you thought you were his best friend – his only friend. Holmes had no friends – he wasn't capable of friendship. He was a sociopath. I know that to be the case, because _I_ understand the psychology of emotions. You _don't_. You didn't understand Rob's motivations back then – if you _had_ , you'd have been more lenient with him."

Moran paces again – he seems to be getting more agitated, which doesn't bode well for John. His sole hope is Mycroft now – _please God he hasn't reduced his surveillance_ …

"I could _see_ you hadn't learnt your lesson, but before I could do anything about it, you got yourself shot. Your mistake again, of course. You didn't stay with the medical team – you disobeyed orders just to see if you could save one more man. You exposed yourself to enemy fire with very little gain – yes, you saved the kid initially, but he died later anyway. And you almost joined him because of your own stupidity. And _then_ you exposed another of my men to danger - Bill Murray naturally broke ranks and ran to help you instead of staying on his allocated target."

He waves his hand, dismissively. "Oh, I didn't punish him for _that_ , in case you're wondering. I can understand comradely loyalty - even appreciate it, to some extent. And, anyway, you were disabled by your injury – discharged with post-traumatic stress disorder, sent home, back to a dreary existence. As far as I could tell, you were suffering for your mistakes – which was only right. I wanted you to know what it's _really_ _like_ – to know how Rob felt. To experience the despair, the sense of worthlessness he must have felt that night, just before he took out the army pistol he'd managed to get hold of and blew his own brains out."

He sinks back into his chair, his voice dropping to a whisper. "As long as you were suffering, as long as you were _learning_ , I didn't care what happened to you. But you didn't suffer for long, did you? You took up with the famous Sherlock Holmes – and suddenly, there you were, by his side." Moran's voice takes on a mocking, sing-song quality. "The _great_ Dr John Watson, the faithful sidekick, the famous blogger, helping the consulting detective in his mission to keep London safe from the criminal element. Separating right from wrong. Oh, how _grateful_ the nation must have been for the skills of the genius detective and his military doctor."

"And you resented me for _that_?" John can't keep the incredulity out of his voice. It seems such a ridiculous notion.

"Oh, you thought you were _so_ important," Moran sneers. "If you'd had any conscience at all, you'd have kept out of the public eye. But no, you had to write your blog about the exciting adventures, the mysteries, the precious objects restored to their rightful owners, the people returned to their grateful families … all in that self-satisfied, moralistic tone. By your own account, Holmes was the wayward genius with the moral maturity of a twelve year old. You saw yourself as the man who taught him right from wrong, the man who taught him to care about others – the man with the power to turn a _great_ man into a _good_ man. Oh, yes, _you_ were the genius behind the genius. Your writing _reeked_ of self-importance. You _deserved_ to be punished for your arrogance."

"So – what?" John counters. "You suddenly decided to come after me – after all this time? Why _now_? Why wait until Sherlock died?" He doesn't bother to point out that Moran has got him totally wrong. Why argue? The man has a massive chip on his shoulder, and it's quite clear that there's nothing John can say now to challenge Moran's rock-solid belief that he is accountable for Rob Marshall's death.

Moran shakes his head in mock-dismay. "Oh, poor John. Do you _really_ think I've been waiting all this time to renew our acquaintance?"

John closes his eyes briefly. "Moriarty, of course."

His captor nods. "Yes, James Moriarty. He approached me. He knew all about you – your military service and what happened to Rob Marshall. He contacted me while I was still in the army but back from Bastion – I was based in training at that time. He wanted certain information, which I was happy to provide. And he required certain skills too."

John thinks back, remembering that night at the pool. "You were the sniper?"

Moran nods. "It was a shock to see how civilian life had _diminished_ you. You always made a mediocre soldier, but that night you were utterly pathetic, clutching at Moriarty in some ridiculous attempt to save Holmes' life. As if it would have made any difference at all. Moriarty was always going to kill Holmes. It was only a matter of when. Yes, I was the sniper. You know what? Moriarty knew I wanted to kill you – he would have known just how much my finger was twitching on that trigger. And he predicted what you'd do. He told me I'd get my chance to kill you…and I _would_ have. But then it was called off by Ms Adler's phone call."

"And you never tried again? You surprise me, Sebastian," John replies, lightly. "Or did Moriarty have something on _you_?"

Moran shrugs. "He gave me my orders. He told me to stand down, so I did, however tempting it was to finish you off. He told me there'd be another opportunity – and he was right."

John tries his luck. "But there _wasn't_ , was there? You do know he's dead, don't you?"

Moran stares at him for a moment. John assumes it is shock at hearing about Moriarty's death – perhaps he didn't actually know? But he's proved wrong a minute later when his captor roars with laughter, shaking his head in disbelief.

"You really don't _know_ , do you? Why would you? I suppose he never had a chance to tell you. Tell me, do you know _why_ Holmes jumped from that building?"

"Something to do with Moriarty, I suppose." John tries to keep his voice steady. He has to assume that Moran doesn't know that Sherlock is still alive.

Moran stands up, walking slowly towards him, making John crane his neck to look up at him. He counts on his fingers. "Three snipers. Three targets. You. Detective Inspector Lestrade. Mrs Martha Hudson. I was _your_ sniper."

"What do you mean?" John is struggling to keep calm, even as ice-cold realisation begins to descend on him.

"When your _friend_ was on the roof, he knew that if he didn't jump, you would die. You and the other two. While you were standing there, looking up at him, trying to convince him to stop, to come down, you had _no_ idea that I was standing in the building right behind you, with my gun pointing at your head."

"You – you – I don't believe you." John feels something tightening in his chest. _It can't be – it can't be…_

"That bothers you, doesn't it?" Moran is watching him with an air of detached interest. "It really bothers you that Holmes had to die for you. Oh, and two others of course, but I think we both know who he _really_ sacrificed his life for."

John can't speak, can hardly breathe. _Oh, God, Sherlock…_

"Hmm, yes." Moran is enjoying his discomfort. "Yes, it certainly _does_ bother you. As it should, of course," he adds, almost gently. "After all, who is _John Watson_ that an important man like Sherlock Holmes should lay down his life for him? Why do _you_ deserve to live when he is dead? A great man – gone, finished – for _you_." Moran shakes his head, regretfully.

"I was ordered to kill you unless Holmes jumped or we received a message from Moriarty. No message was received, and I expected to be able to kill you… but once again, I was thwarted."

Moran's voice takes on an air of surprised outrage. "Moriarty assured me that I would get my opportunity this time around. He told me that Holmes would _never_ jump. It was almost guaranteed that he would try to get out of it – and I'd finally get what I wanted. But then he _did_ jump… and again, I had to stand down."

"I'm surprised you bothered," John croaks. _Oh, Sherlock, if only I'd known_. "If you wanted to kill me so much, why didn't you just take your chance?"

Moran glares at him. "Don't tar me with your brush, Watson. You might not be able to follow orders, but I'm a soldier. If I'm given an instruction, I follow it, no matter how hard it might be."

He smiles coldly. "But then there were advantages after all. For the first time, I got a chance to see you _suffer_. I saw you diminish in stature even more. You were just a pathetic, miserable, lonely, maimed man who no one knew how to speak to anymore. They either despised you or pitied you for your perceived deception at the hands of the great fraudster."

John's head shoots up at this, familiar outrage going through him. "He was _real_."

"Yes, of course he was," Sebastian agrees. "I _knew_ he was, which is why I wrote those messages. You see, no one really knows who they've lost – apart from you and me, and one or two others. All those stupid, stupid people out there – that great mass of humanity - only interested in the latest scandal, the latest celebrity gossip. I bet they _loved_ Ms Riley's expose; I bet they _revelled_ in it. They still have _no_ idea that they actively helped James Moriarty to manipulate one of the world's greatest minds into an early grave. Even the police." Moran shakes his head in disbelief. "Didn't they _know_ what they lost? My little contributions were a constant reminder to them that they could no longer rely on Holmes to solve the 'unsolvable'."

" _Little_ contributions?" John can't restrain himself. "You arranged the murders of thirteen – no, fourteen - men! And Jovanovic himself."

Moran smirks at him. "You shouldn't mind all that much. They were all low-life scum anyway. This world's too good for the likes of them. Why should _you_ care? You do realise that, if Jovanovic hadn't arrived when he did tonight, you'd have probably had that rusty knife shoved into _your_ lung instead? Ellis has knifed before and he'll do it again. He doesn't care who he hurts. Just because he happened to save your life tonight, don't assume he's got any hope of redemption."

"So you decided to get rid of some scummy elements – and present the police with a mystery they couldn't solve? Just to taunt them? That's what the message meant, wasn't it? _I believe in Sherlock Holmes._ A constant reminder that Sherlock Holmes really _was_ real, and that the one person who _could_ have interpreted the message was no longer around to do so."

"Indeed." Moran nods approvingly at him. "Except… the message wasn't aimed at them. Oh, they needed to see it, of course, if only so they could drag in the individual that the message was actually aimed at - _you_. For that to happen, Greg Lestrade had to be involved. Only he would think to involve you – none of the others would have dared. That's why there had to be so many killings. It took a while, but it was inevitable that Lestrade would get involved… and once he _did_ , he naturally turned to you.

"You see, John, my ultimate goal was to give you a challenge. A game, if you like. The type of crime that Holmes would probably have solved after the first death. I wanted to see how far you would go – whether you had the guts and the skill to win the game. There were two possible outcomes. Either you wouldn't be able to work it out – and you would have been haunted by your inability to solve a mystery that your dead friend would have taken in his stride. Or you _would_ have solved it – and by doing so, you would have proved that your continuing existence, secured by your friend's sacrifice, was _worth_ something. That Sherlock Holmes didn't die in vain."

"So all _this_ has just been a game, then – aimed at me? All the deaths, all the evidence? Just to prove that I can never be as good as Sherlock Holmes? For what purpose? To make me suffer?"

"No, John." Again, Moran's voice is almost gentle. "To _destroy_ you."

"What about Bex? Why her?" John asks, bitterly. "Wasn't she one of society's victims, like Rob – one of those who suffer?"

"Her?" Moran sniffs, dismissively. "Oh, she was always going to be targeted. She would have been one of Moriarty's victims earlier on, when he set those challenges for Holmes to solve. He just wasn't able to get hold of her when he needed to. But she was on his list, make no mistake. He wanted Holmes to experience the loss of someone he knew. But then he kidnapped you instead – _you_ were intended to be the victim that would remind Holmes that he had a heart after all. As things turned out, the girl proved useful to _me_ – she gave me the chance to send you a very specific message. You'd ignored the first one, after all – which was a risk, of course, but the paving slab wasn't intended to actually _kill_ you."

" _What_ message?"

Moran shakes his head, reprovingly. "Oh, John. Don't you get it? _You_ broke the rules of the game. You involved Mycroft Holmes instead of working it out by yourself. _That's_ no way to win the game. And then you contacted Greg Lestrade, so he had to be taken out of the equation too."

"That was _also_ you? The hit-and-run? He could have _died_."

Moran laughs. "To quote my ex-employer… that's what people _do_." He doesn't seem remotely bothered by Moriarty's death – but then John supposes that the consulting criminal was just a means to an end for Moran.

John leans back in his chair. "So, what now? You're still going to kill me? Even though I 'won' your game?"

"Ah, but you didn't, did you? Not without cheating. Do you think Holmes would have asked his older brother for help? Or Lestrade?" Moran shakes his head. "He would rather have _died_ than resort to receiving _help_. Holmes had his own code of behaviour. He would have understood the game."

He smiles at John. "And that's the difference between you and him, I'm afraid. Holmes _was_ a great man. He didn't allow the purity of his mind to become tainted by unnecessary emotion… until he met _you_."

The expression on his face turns cold – there's not a trace of good humour in it now. "Holmes was undermined by you. You were his one weakness. You slowed him down. You tried to make him care about the victims. You _corrupted_ that pure, shining, _perfect_ mind. He started to modify his behaviour - his reactions even started to match yours. He may not have been aware of it at first, but the instinct was there. I could see how impressed he was by your behaviour at the pool – weak and pathetic and illogical as you were, he actually _liked_ the fact that you tried to sacrifice yourself for him.

"That's when the rot started to set in. If he hadn't been trying to impress Ms Adler, he would never have been caught out by Moriarty... and he wouldn't have even _tried_ to impress her if _you_ hadn't made him aware of his own loneliness in the first place. Holmes had no interest in human relationships before you came into his life, and – for _him_ – that was an advantage. Men like Holmes can't cope with emotions very well – they lose their focus. They're not designed to live a 'normal' life – to have friends…or lovers.

"If he'd never met you, he wouldn't have developed the fatal weakness of caring for someone else – and Moriarty wouldn't have been able to exploit that. If it hadn't been for you, Holmes would have defeated Moriarty eventually…and would have lived to tell the tale. You _do_ realise that – don't you?"

It's on the tip of John's tongue to point out that Sherlock _has_ defeated Moriarty in his own way, even if no one knows it, but he doesn't dare say anything. Even if it's the last thing he will ever do, he _has_ to protect Sherlock from this madman. Moran is fixated on the fact of Sherlock's death to the point of obsession – almost as if he reveres him as a hero for going to his death while still untouched by corrupting emotions. God knows what he'd do if he found out that Sherlock has been alive all this time…

"I pity you, John, I really do," Sebastian continues, casually. He's sitting in the chair again, turned slightly away and fiddling with his pistol in a way that John doesn't like. "You made the mistake of thinking that you were important to Sherlock Holmes. As if someone like him would give the likes of _you_ more than a cursory glance. He only kept you around so he could have a little puppy dog following after him, ready to praise him, to follow his instructions, to run after him and protect his back."

"I _did_ matter to him - you admitted it yourself," John mutters.

Moran throws him a dismissive look before returning his attention to his gun. "Yes, you _mattered_ , but not in the way you think. You were his weakness. You were the reason he couldn't go on. _That's_ why he jumped. Not because he wanted to save you, but because he had realised that he cared about you. Moriarty made him realise it and the knowledge horrified him. He couldn't _live_ knowing that his mind - his life work - had been fatally weakened by emotion."

The really frightening thing, John reflects, is that it makes a kind of twisted sense. The point is he really doesn't know what _was_ going on Sherlock's mind before he jumped. What was it he said in the laboratory, just before John rushed off to Mrs Hudson? _Alone protects me_. And John had countered that, had told him that friends protect friends… but did Sherlock really believe that? Was he right to believe that caring was a disadvantage – that it weakened him?

His shoulders slump. He's just so… _tired_. He wants it to be over – the three years of constant worry, the endless deception of the few friends he still has, the need to watch his every word… and for what? For a man who probably considers him a liability? A man who couldn't trust John to keep his survival a secret?

He'd wanted to be of use. He'd stood in Baker Street, armed with his new knowledge, and vowed that he wouldn't let Sherlock down. Since then, he's tried to make a difference – but, really, what good has he actually done? Thanks to him, thirteen minor criminals and, more importantly, a girl who deserved something better from life have died. His good friend is in hospital, seriously injured.

What's the point anymore? Maybe Moran _should_ have killed him three years ago…

"Well, John, this has all been very interesting." Moran stands up, facing John. He loads his pistol with steady, efficient hands. "However, it's time to finish this. You should be glad, really. After all, you'll finally be joining your friend. And I think we both know that you've really only lived a half-life since his death." He cocks his pistol and takes aim at John's head.

John stares into the mouth of the gun and can't think of a single thing to say. This is it. He wishes – well, there's no point in making wishes anymore. But if only he could have seen Sherlock one last time, before…

"Goodbye, Captain Watson. I'm sorry you didn't learn the lesson. I wish I could say that it's been a pleasure knowing you… but that would be a lie. And, as you know, I'm renowned for my honesty."

"Indeed you are, Colonel Moran."

Sebastian Moran freezes at the new voice. A deep, cultured baritone that John thought he would never get to hear again…

The door opens, and Sherlock Holmes is standing there, his eyes on Sebastian Moran.


	9. Chapter 9

John's initial reaction on seeing the famous consulting detective for the first time in over three years is... _but this cannot possibly be Sherlock_.

He strains his neck looking over his shoulder at his long-absent friend, who has just strolled through the door as if he's on a social visit.

Sherlock's curly hair has been cut brutally short in an amateurish matter – almost as if someone has just hacked at it with a pair of blunt scissors - and it's been dyed a strange mixture of partially washed-out red and brown. He's dressed in tatty jeans that look as if they've come from a charity shop and are ridiculously short on him, finishing a couple of inches above his bony ankles. His shoes look as if they're about to fall apart – the soles are split and they look if they're only being held together by ratty string acting as shoelaces. He's wearing no socks and his feet are filthy. He's wearing a dirty and badly torn hoodie, which is too short in the arms. Underneath it, John can see a jumper that he recognises as one of the ones he packed in the backpack, although, in his memory, it was light blue instead of grey.

Never particularly well-fleshed, Sherlock is now bone-thin, as evidenced by his skinny ankles and wrists and the fact that the jumper, which John picked out deliberately to fit him, is hanging loosely on his frame. His nose looks as if it has been broken and poorly set at some point, and he has a long silvery scar down his left cheek, running from just below his eye to the back of his jaw. John doesn't have to be a doctor to see that the scarring is likely to be permanent.

And he stinks. John's nose wrinkles involuntarily as Sherlock moves towards him.

It's a serious comedown for the sharply-dressed detective, with his designer suits, dramatic coat and bespoke shoes, and as Sherlock glances at him with an apparent air of unconcern, John detects just a trace of embarrassment in those strange, otherworldly eyes.

All in all, it's surprising that he recognises him so quickly. It's even more surprising that Sebastian Moran clearly has no doubt as to the newcomer's identity.

The gun falls away from John's face as Moran takes a step back, his face ashen.

"But…but… you're dead!"

"Well, _obviously_ not." John notes that Sherlock hasn't lost his acerbic tone – that ability to convey utter contempt in just a few well-chosen words.

"But how…? I _saw_ you fall. I was watching."

"Really? Exactly _what_ did you see? As I recall, you were employed to watch – in fact, to kill – Dr Watson." Sherlock moves forward, disregarding the gun, his eyes steadily focused on Moran. Apart from that one casual glance, he is paying no attention to John whatsoever. "And yes, you saw me _fall_ , but in fact you did not see me _land_."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" The words sound hostile, but John sees Moran's eyes narrow with interest rather than anger, and he lowers his gun, while keeping it still cocked. His attention is reserved purely for Sherlock now – John gets the strong impression that he is no longer of the remotest interest to Sebastian Moran. For once in his life, he doesn't much mind being ignored in favour of his more charismatic friend.

"Tell me, Moran, why do you suppose I asked Dr Watson to stand where he did?" Sherlock's voice is light, perfectly casual - or so it would seem. John frowns a little; this is not Sherlock's usual style when faced with a criminal… but then, what's normal for Sherlock after three years of living in obscurity, danger and squalor? He's not able to examine his face for any clues regarding a possible plan of action, as the detective has stepped straight past him and is keeping his back towards John.

"Presumably so that he would get a good view," Sebastian sneers, not looking at John.

"Not true," Sherlock replies, calmly. "It was so that _you_ would see me fall…but would not see me land. I was able to deduce your likely location without actually seeing you. From where you were positioned, with your focus on my colleague, you would only get a fleeting glimpse of my falling body. The distance between Dr Watson and my fall was such that you were unable to keep your eyes on both at once. And, of course, the building that he was positioned by prevented him – and you – from getting a good view of my _supposed_ landing place."

"I _see_." Moran smiles slowly with something like admiration. "Very clever, Mr Holmes."

" _Hardly_ ," replies Sherlock, in his 'I'm talking to a fool' voice, and John has to suppress a grin despite the seriousness of their current position. He's acutely aware of the fact that Sherlock appears to be unarmed in the presence of an unhinged individual with a gun and a serious case of trigger finger… and that _he_ is currently unable to be of any help whatsoever.

He's also a little confused by Sherlock's actions. The detective is currently standing slightly in front of him and slightly to the right, with his hands behind his back. He's moving them in an odd manner – they are close together, thumbs pressed against each other and wrists touching, but the fingers of his right hand are curled up and twitching just above his wrist.

It takes John a ridiculously long time to realise that Sherlock is imitating his own tied hands, and that he's instructing John to use his fingers to pull on a loose end of rope situated just above his right wrist. John focuses carefully on Sherlock's fingers and clumsily tries to imitate the twisting motion that the detective is demonstrating. He feels the knot beginning to give very slowly… slowly…

"So, Mr Holmes, where have you been for the past three years?"

"I suspect you know perfectly well where I have been."

Moran laughs. "I can't deceive you, can I? Of course I know. Moriarty's remaining empire – well, well...impressive. Very impressive."

Again, John is struck by Moran's lack of empathy for his former employer. He wonders at the mentality of a man who will stay his trigger finger on Moriarty's say-so, not once but twice, despite his murderous intentions… and yet will show not the remotest interest in that man's death. Was he _always_ this mad, even during those days in Bastion? How the _hell_ had he got through the army's numerous psychiatric assessments?

But then he'd fooled John too, hadn't he? He'd fooled them all.

John had been nervous of him following the Rob Marshall incident but prior to that, he remembered being charmed by the colonel's bright, admiring smile when it was directed at him at a firing range during basic training. Moran had an innate ability to make people like him and want to please him – so much so that John had felt almost guilty about turning down the colonel's half-serious suggestion that he transfer from the medical corps into his own team due to John's skill as a marksman.

John watches now as that same smile is directed solely at the famous consulting detective who has just returned so dramatically from the dead. He had feared Moran's reaction to Sherlock's survival, but it's become clear that his captor has no murderous intentions... towards Sherlock, at any rate.

"Well, you _have_ been busy, Mr Holmes, bringing down an international crime ring - apparently single-handed, too."

"As have you, it would seem." Sherlock's voice is perfectly neutral; no hint of condemnation, but no enthusiasm either.

"You surprise me." Moran's expression is increasingly calculating. It hasn't taken him long to get over his shock. "I should have thought you would have been too busy with your own battles to pay much attention to what was happening here in London. You realise, of course, that your activities have put your old colleague here into some danger."

Sherlock shrugs. "I had every confidence in Dr Watson's ability to look after himself. My colleague is a soldier, after all – and perhaps he is rather more accomplished than you give him credit for."

His voice is utterly cold and controlled, and John is confused by his constant reference to him as 'Dr Watson' and 'my colleague' instead of the more familiar 'John'. It's almost as if Sherlock is trying to distance himself from his friend… unless the language is being used to convey a message?

Sebastian throws John a dismissive look. "He received assistance from your brother, of course – he was hardly likely to survive alone. Moriarty's former associates have made several attempts on his life, thanks to your activities. It was just as well that your brother was vigilant, otherwise my game would have been rather short."

Again, Sherlock gives that dangerously negligent shrug.

"So…you were aware of my…activities." Moran folds his arms, apparently quite relaxed. However, John's eyes are on the still-cocked gun, now facing downwards. The firm grip and slightly twitching thumb worry him. _Please, God, Sherlock don't taunt him. He's just looking for an excuse…_ _b_ _ut which one of us will be his victim_?

"Indeed, I was perfectly aware. My network kept me informed, even while I was abroad, focused on other matters."

"Ah yes, the infamous Homeless Network." Moran gives an icy smile. "I must apologise for the death of one of its key members, but, as you see, your colleague Watson made it necessary. If he had not broken the rules of the game by going to your brother for help, she might still be alive. Ah, well - casualties of war, you understand."

"I see." Sherlock's voice is perfectly calm. John still cannot see where the detective is going with this. He seems content for the moment to allow Moran to lead the conversation; he's not breaking in with his usual quick-fire observations. It occurs to John that Sherlock may be playing for time – trying to give him the chance to free his hands.

If so, it's working well, if slowly. Sherlock's left hand is moving above his right, changing the angle and indicating another loose strand with his thumb and forefinger, and John is following suit. He can feel the knot weaken a little more. He should be able to slip his hands out any minute now… he has to suppress a wince as the rough rope rubs against his already raw wrists.

"The Homeless Network played a role in my game, didn't they?" Moran asks. "You instructed them to send the warnings to the police. About the murders."

Sherlock says nothing, but Moran goes on, emboldened by his guess. "If that's the case, why delay until it was too late? I assume you were able to deduce who the next victim would be… but clearly you were just too late on each occasion."

"I was…somewhat resource-limited," Sherlock admits, after a pause. John can detect the reluctance in his voice. If there's one thing the detective hates, it is having to confess to a failure.

"No doubt you were," Moran agrees. "Even _with_ your brother's assistance. I presume you compiled the file that he eventually passed on to Watson, at your request?"

John's muscles tense. He has a sudden vision of Mycroft – the man he sat down with only 24 hours ago, a man who tried to convince John that he _cared -_ as someone who has been aware of his brother's survival _all this time_. And he had the nerve to look directly into John's eyes... _That complete, utter bastard_. And there he was, feeling vaguely guilty about keeping Sherlock's own brother in the dark...

He has to force himself to breathe deeply and calm down, so he can carry on slipping the knot with the greatest of care.

Sherlock ignores this reference to his brother. "I was able to predict the victims and their likely order – that was obvious once I was in a position to hack into police computers. However, it was more difficult to predict the pattern, and thus the dates and locations. It was clever of you to keep them quite random."

There's just a smidgeon of grudging admiration in Sherlock's voice, and Sebastian preens in a way that sets John's teeth on edge.

"It's really quite a shame that I wasn't able to play this game with _you_ instead of Watson. You would have made the last three years much more interesting."

"Your game would not have lasted three days, let alone three years, if I _had_ been involved," Sherlock points out, acerbically. "And since Dr Watson was only called in by the police four days' ago, you can hardly blame him for not having solved the puzzle any sooner. In reality, you have spent a considerable amount of time taunting the police - and to little end, until Inspector Lestrade decided to consult my colleague."

John holds his breath, but Moran doesn't seem to take offence.

Sherlock continues: "Unfortunately, circumstances meant that I was only able to predict a murder very shortly before the event. I realised fairly early on that the common denominator was that the killings took place in locations not perfectly covered by CCTV. It was then a case of observing potential victims, matching them to such locations and working out exactly when they were likely to be alone there. Once I had a good grasp of their activities, I was able to deduce where the assault would take place and a possible time of day – or night. However, it was still difficult to predict exactly what date. I was only able to do so when your killer was spotted following them, at which point it was usually too late. My assumption was that, eventually, the police would arrive early enough to intercept the murderer, but progress was slow, particularly as I was often abroad and out of contact."

"So, when it became clear that Watson wouldn't back off, you no doubt advised your reluctant brother to provide the information he had requested," Sebastian comments. "I'm surprised you didn't force him to remove Watson from the equation altogether. I have no doubt that your brother would have been able to make the necessary arrangements… which would, of course, have been of the greatest disappointment to me."

"Why would I do that? You appear to be under the misapprehension that I lack confidence in Dr Watson's survival skills – and his ability to solve crimes."

There's a slight tension in Sherlock's shoulders as he replies, in that same light, neutral voice. John doubts that Moran will have noticed; he only does so because he is concentrating very carefully on Sherlock's body language. He's finally slipped his hands free and is bracing himself, ready to move at Sherlock's signal.

Moran laughs. "You'll forgive me if I find that hard to believe." His eyes run over Sherlock with renewed interest. "Unless… am I missing something? You've never shown particular confidence in Watson's abilities in the past. Your attitude towards him is usually impatient – one might say _dismissive_. Certainly I have never detected any _particular_ respect or admiration."

"You may not have detected any _apparent_ respect," Sherlock comments, mildly. "After all, you have only seen me in public and it is not in my nature to display any emotion. It seems rather pointless, when my attention and energies can be far better deployed."

"And then, of course, caring is a disadvantage," Moran responds softly, with a slightly mocking glance towards John. "You said so yourself."

Sherlock is silent for a moment. Then: "I must congratulate you, Moran. You seem to know me very well."

Moran looks triumphant, but John hardly spares him a glance. _Come on, Sherlock, come on…_

"However," the detective continues, "- _my friend John_ knows me rather better."

The emphasis couldn't be more obvious. It's the signal John's been waiting for. He tenses his thigh muscles, gripping the chair in his shaking hands.

" _Vatican cameos_!"

Sherlock dodges instantly to the right as John jumps up, throwing himself forward. Sebastian Moran has the barest moment to react, to bring his gun into position, before John brings the chair over his head and hurls it with as much strength as he can muster straight at the colonel's head.

His aim is imperfect and only strikes Moran's shoulder, but it is enough to force his arm backwards and send the gun flying to the corner of the room. The lithe ex-soldier is almost knocked off his feet but is already recovering his balance as John follows with a better-aimed punch, into which he channels all the fury that his captor's insults have aroused.

Moran's chin flies up at the impact of John's fist and he is flung back against the wall, blood spurting from his mouth. John is already surging towards him, drawing back his fist once more, when Sherlock grabs his arm and drags him towards the door.

"Sherlock, the gun!" He squints into the dark corner where it fell, trying to spot it.

"Leave it – no time," Sherlock orders, his hand gripping John's wrist as he more-or-less hauls him out of the door and down the dark passageway towards the open front door. "He has back-up on the way – I saw him send a warning code from his mobile in his pocket."

The detective stops abruptly and John careens into him, almost knocking them both off balance. Sherlock seems to be listening intently.

Then: "Too late. Back, back – to the back door, _quickly_!"

As Sherlock pushes him back along the passageway, John hears running feet coming from the street at the front. He runs straight past the door, not stopping to look for Moran, with Sherlock on his heels. He guesses that, like most of these old Victorian properties, there'll be a kitchen at the back with a garden door. He takes a chance on the door at the end of the passageway and gets lucky – at the back of the empty kitchen that he finds himself in, there's a door leading into the garden. John hurls himself at the door, praying that it isn't locked, but in fact the rotten wood simply gives way with the impact.

Once outside, Sherlock sprints past on his longer legs, vaulting the fence at the far end of the garden with his usual effortless grace. John, cursing in a way that feels all-too-familiar, follows him. He tenses his muscles and somehow manages to scramble over. He lands a little awkwardly, wincing at the impact on his knees.

"Come _on_ , John. At least _try_ to keep up."

"Easy for you to say," he mutters, as he follows the lanky shadow across the rough ground of another garden. He can hear the heavy breathing of someone running fast behind - this more than anything else gives him the impetus he needs to pick up his heavy feet.

The garden is overgrown and the going is awkward. Ahead of him, he can see the detective making for the road just beyond the unlit house, which looks derelict. Once again, he stops unexpectedly, then backs up quickly and dodges back around the house.

"Armed man coming from the front," he mutters.

"And another behind," John replies, resignedly. He glances over his shoulder, but there's no one to be seen. Unlikely to be Moran, though – he'd be lighter on his feet and would certainly have caught up by now.

"Hmm. They're cutting us off. Quick - over here." Sherlock darts across a weed-strewn patio towards a door with the upper window smashed in. He climbs through the open window frame, John following as closely and as quietly as possible.

It's pitch-dark inside, and John backs up, reaching behind him with one hand to find the side wall while grabbing at Sherlock's torn top with the other. Having located a wall, he backs along it, pulling Sherlock with him while feeling for a doorway. His foot knocks against an object on the floor.

"Shh." Sherlock pulls on his arm, forcing him to stop. The detective's face is silhouetted by the faint light coming through a nearby window, and John can see that his head is cocked slightly to the left, listening intently. Quiet footsteps can be heard crossing the patio.

A torch is shone through the broken patio door and flashed around the room. John freezes against the wall. In his current position, he's more-or-less hidden behind Sherlock, which is probably just as well, as his lightish jacket would stand out, unlike Sherlock's dark hoodie.

The light flashes briefly across their wall and John holds his breath. Sherlock stands as still as a stone. It returns again once and then moves away before withdrawing altogether. They hear footsteps retreating across the patio and a quiet discussion between two men, which fades in volume as they move away.

Sherlock moves silently, crab-like, towards the window and peers out quickly before moving back towards John and putting his mouth close to his ear. "Two men. One going back around the front of the house; the other heading back across the garden."

"Towards Moran," John agrees.

"Yes. We don't have much time. Moran won't be so easily fooled – as soon as he gets here, he'll realise exactly where we are."

"Come on, this way." John backs along the wall again. "Maybe we can find a way out of the front door without being seen?"

"No, no – we need to get up high. Look for some stairs."

"What are you on about? Sherlock, we need to get _away_ from here," John whispers frantically, but Sherlock darts in front of him and pulls his arm urgently.

"Here – up here. Quickly!"

They stumble up some rickety steps. The loud creaks and the degree of give in the rotting wood unnerve John. He hesitates on the first floor landing, half-expecting the floor to give way, but Sherlock urges him on along a passageway, and then up some steep wooden steps at the far end.

The steps lead into an attic, lit dimly both by a skylight and by slatted gaps in the roof itself. Sherlock pushes a wooden crate under the skylight, steps on it and stands on tiptoe to open the window.

"Here – give me a lift up," he urges, and John makes a step with his hands for the detective's foot. He braces himself, pushing Sherlock up until he grabs the edges of the sill and pulls himself up out of sight.

He reappears almost immediately, leaning dangerously low to grab John's hands and pull him up until the doctor can find enough purchase to scramble out onto the roof.

It doesn't strike him as a particularly safe position. There's a fair chance that Sebastian has snipers posted around the area, and they are very exposed here on the rooftop. And the roof tiles are slippery with rain and dangerously loose – one clatters noisily to the ground as Sherlock scrambles up the steep slope towards the chimney. John notices that his friend is struggling to find a grip with his worn shoes; he himself is finding the going easier in military-style boots with a good grip.

He just hopes that Sherlock has made the right decision because, right now, they're sitting ducks. It's too much to hope that Sebastian won't work out where they've gone.

Sherlock crawls to the top of the roof and works his way around the chimney, until he is out of view of the skylight. John sighs and follows him, after a cautious glance towards the window. When he sinks down beside the detective, he notices that Sherlock is fiddling with a wristwatch on his bony wrist.

"Activating a signal," he explains at John's questioning look. "Mycroft's agents can home in on it. That's why we needed to be high up, to reduce interference. Much as it pains me to admit it, we may require my dear brother's help."

"Yeah, well I suppose it didn't occur to you that it might be useful to bring a gun?" John is suddenly quite furious. This is so _typical_ of the Sherlock he remembers - to go bowling into danger without backup or any apparent plan to get out again unscathed.

Sherlock huffs out a breath of irritation. "Well, forgive me for being focused on getting to you before Moran's gun went off. It's not as if I had much notice."

"Well, forgive _me_ , but it sounds as if you've had plenty of support from your _dear brother_ over the last three years," John snaps back. "I suppose he told you where to find me?"

"As a matter of fact, no, he didn't. He contacted me earlier to indicate that one of those _fools_ he employs had lost sight of you somewhere around Battersea Park Station." Sherlock mutters this through his teeth; he sounds utterly furious. John wonders whether he's been forced by the circumstances to break his cover… and he also wonders exactly how much of a role Sherlock has played in Mycroft's surveillance of him during the last three years. "I had to mooch around the area, trying to work out where you'd got to, until I received the intelligence - and I use that word _lightly_ in relation to the imbecile concerned - that your old friend Bill Murray had recently been seen hurrying out of Weston Street. After that, it was easy to track you down - naturally."

"Oh, _naturally_ ," John snipes back, then stops, listening to himself and shaking his head in disbelief. "Oh, for Christ's sake, this is crazy. You've just come back from the dead after three years, and here we are on a roof, probably in full view of some of the best snipers in the world… and we're _bickering_?"

Sherlock is looking around, his eyes darting over the nearby rooftops, checking for any movement. "Well, in point of fact, I believe _you_ are bickering. It's obvious that you're trying to provoke some kind of confrontation. And while I do not deny that some explanations are required, I'm not _entirely_ sure that you have the best timing, John."

John opens and closes his mouth a few times, in utter disbelief.

The detective frowns. "I'm assuming that you found out fairly soon afterwards that my death was faked? After all, I left enough clues…surely?"

John sighs. " _No_ , Sherlock. You left enough clues for _you_. We lesser mortals sometimes require a bit more help. If I hadn't spotted your coat in the graveyard that day, I'd probably still have been none the wiser. You really are a complete and utter _wanker_ , you know that, don't you?"

"Probably," Sherlock agrees, with just a glint of humour in his eyes.

"It might have helped if you'd sent me a message or two. Anything, really – just word-of-mouth via your network would have done. After all, you knew that I'd found out – you must have done, since my bag obviously got to you." He nods at Sherlock's jumper.

Sherlock looks a little confused. "I _did_ send you messages. Didn't you see the flames?"

John visualises the blue flames that matched his own red symbol perfectly. "So, Raz was right – they really _were_ painted by you?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "No, John, they were painted by the Dalai Lama. Now _that's_ an interesting man, unlike your old army pal down there, who appears to have a rather inflated ego. I had an opportunity to stay with him in India last year while hiding from some rather nasty individuals who seemed a little unhappy with me." He grins, reminiscently. "He told me about a most amusing prank he played on Mycroft during an international spirituality conference at Oxford University – my brother was an undergraduate at the time and it seems that -."

"Um, Sherlock, I'm not sure this is the best time for Mycroft-related anecdotes. We're currently sitting on the sliding roof tiles of a house that's probably been condemned, being hunted down by a psycho with a gun who wants to kill _me_ and crown _you_ king of his personal empire of nuttiness."

"And your problem is?" asks Sherlock, casually.

They stare at each other in silence for a moment… and then both burst into shaky laughter. Or, at least, Sherlock laughs and John lets out a slightly hysterical giggle that he will later try to deny.

"I'm just trying to lighten the atmosphere," Sherlock counters. "I've been told that it can help in certain situations."

"Not in this one," John mutters. He remembers something else, and feels his shoulders tensing again. "Did he… did Mycroft _know_? From the start, I mean?" He tries to sound casual, but can tell that he's failed.

Sherlock pauses in his eagle-eyed perusal of the rooftops to give John a sideways, slightly uncertain, look. "He didn't know at _first_. It took him about two months to find out. He had my phone, of course, and I'd left clues on it regarding my planned movements. I thought – I imagined - that you might get the mobile, and I hoped you might be able to work out at least some of the codes. But of course Mycroft sent in a clean-up crew to retrieve Moriarty, so the phone fell into his hands. I should have anticipated that."

He looks genuinely irritated by his perceived oversight, and John is struck afresh by the fact that the Holmes brothers are far more alike than they would probably care to realise.

"And he's been helping you bring down Moriarty's empire? And you're back now?" John observes his friend, carefully. "It _is_ over – isn't it?"

Again, he gets another of those uncertain, darting glances. Sherlock, he realises, is less sure of his welcome than he wants to admit.

"It's not over quite yet. There are some loose ends that need tidying up -."

"Which Mycroft can do – surely?" John can't believe what he's hearing – _surely_ Sherlock isn't planning to disappear again?

Sherlock hesitates. "Well, yes, he _could_."

John shakes his head, slowly. "But you won't let him, even now, will you? It's got to be by _your_ hand... all of it."

It's not a question. Sherlock gazes out over the rooftops for a moment, and then he turns his head slowly, looking at John directly for the first time since walking in on him and Moran. "It won't be tomorrow, John, it might take a few weeks or longer…but I _will_ come back." _If you'll let me_ , is the unspoken proviso that lies between them.

John gives a short laugh. "Well, you'd better. This conversation is most definitely _not_ over… and you still have a lot of explaining to do." _And you will give me answers_ , he adds silently.

Sherlock's all-seeing eyes run over his face, clearly lingering on the gaunt features, the dark-ringed eyes that speak of sleepless nights and the bloodied dressing on his forehead. John flushes a little under the scrutiny and looks away… and then there's a crash in the house below them. It's the unmistakeable sound of a door being knocked down – Moran is clearly too enraged to bother about stealth… and, in any case, he must know that he has them cornered.

Sherlock grasps John's arm in a vice-like grip. "Not long enough," he whispers. "Mycroft's men won't make it in time – not to _us_ , at any rate, although they should be able to apprehend the others. It looks like they've already taken out the snipers."

"And you've really got nothing – no gun?" John looks around, rather hopelessly, trying to spot a loose tile with a sharp edge in the absence of any other weaponry. "Jesus, Sherlock, how the hell did you manage to survive for three whole years without pissing off someone enough for them to take a pot shot at you?"

"Well, I _have_ survived – and fairly unscathed too," Sherlock points out, defensively.

"That's a matter of opinion." John lets his eyes run over his friend's emaciated features and broken nose, noting old cuts and bruises. "Was it… how tough has it been?" he asks, gently.

Sherlock doesn't answer for a moment. One eyelid flickers rapidly before he responds in a considered, deliberate manner. "It was…tedious."

And that's quite clearly all that John is going to get, for now at least, but he can read between the lines. And what he observes in the thin, scarred face, the tense shoulders and the uneasy eyes is enough to make him press his shoulder very lightly against Sherlock's in an attempt at a comforting gesture. The detective tenses even more before pressing back against him just for an instant.

They freeze as they hear footsteps in the attic immediately below them. Sherlock puts a finger to his lips and then leans around the side of the chimney, looking towards the skylight just below them. There's a sound of crates being dragged across the floor – Moran can clearly see where they've gone and is trying to climb up unaided.

Sherlock turns back and starts to roll up one of his trouser legs. As John watches, a sports bandage comes into view, just below his knee, and the detective reaches inside and pulls out a small but lethal looking flick knife. Clearly he's not entirely unarmed.

He glances at John and makes a shushing gesture again, before moving onto his feet in a crouch, the opened knife clutched in his hand, listening very carefully to the sound of Moran climbing out of the skylight and onto the roof.

John looks down at his friend's dangerously pathetic footwear… and suddenly he sees it all, quite plain. He knows _exactly_ what will happen if Sherlock scrambles down the slippery roof in those shoes to try to apprehend Moran.

And he knows that he _can't_ see it again – he _can't_ watch that body plummeting off the top of a building. Not again. Once was enough – more than enough.

He tenses his body and, just as Moran turns towards them, gun in hand, throws himself on top of Sherlock. He hears a startled _oomph_ as he pushes Sherlock hard, down onto his stomach… then, without hesitation, he grabs the knife and half-runs half-slithers down the roof, launching himself at Sebastian Moran.

The full force of John's body sends the colonel slipping backwards towards the guttering. He braces himself and manages to find a firmer foothold at the bottom of the sloping roof. John grabs at the arm holding the gun and, for a moment that seems to last forever, the two men struggle for control of it.

Sebastian Moran might be the stronger, better trained fighter, but John has learnt plenty about street brawling during his time with Sherlock and is able to employ some underhand tactics. They're evenly balanced opponents and, as John kicks viciously at Moran's shins to undermine his balance, it becomes clear that he's slowly gaining the upper hand.

Moran teeters dangerously. His arm flies up and the gun goes off with a startlingly loud bang, in the direction of the chimney and … " _Sherlock_!"

John looks up in horror towards his friend as he shouts his name, his attention fatally diverted. Sebastian takes his opportunity, pulling his arm free and pushing his opponent back towards the edge of the roof.

As he feels his feet slipping on the edge, John has just a brief moment to think _oh no you don't, you bastard – if_ _I'm_ _going, you're coming with me_.

He puts his arms around Sebastian in a kind-of bear hug, holding his jacket in a tight grip. Moran's muscles tense and, for a moment, John thinks he will succeed in holding them both up. But then Moran's feet slip, he loses his precarious balance… and they are both over the edge, tumbling through the air.

He is dimly aware of Sherlock's frantic voice calling his name… and then they land together in a heap on the ground, Sebastian underneath him.

All the air is ripped from John's body by the shock of the impact, and he can do nothing but suck in precious oxygen with painful breaths for a couple of minutes. When he comes back to his senses, he discovers that he's lying with his head on Moran's chest and his right arm slightly underneath the other man's inert body. His first thought is that, somehow, he's managed to escape with very few injuries… and then a burning agony rushes up his arm into his shoulder, reminding him that he _has_ , after all, just fallen from a two story building's roof onto a paved patio.

He lies still, trying to assess his injuries. Almost certainly a broken wrist and probably a couple of cracked ribs. And then there's the possible concussion from two separate bashes to his head earlier this evening. All in all, he could use a hospital right now...

All of a sudden, he's aware of the stillness of Moran's body. He can't see very well in the darkness, but he reaches up with his left hand and feels for the man's pulse in his neck. It's faint and thready - and even as his finger is pressed to the point, he can feel it slowing down. And then he makes another realisation. He's still clutching Sherlock's knife in his right hand…the hand that is currently just under Sebastian's left side, right beneath his ribs. He keeps his finger on Moran's pulse until it finally stops.

He grits his teeth and rolls off Moran; the action sending another wave of pain up his fractured wrist, still trapped underneath the other man's now-dead body. The resulting agony is so intense that he can't prevent the groan that escapes his throat.

"John? _John_!"

There's a flicker of light coming towards them. John tries to speak, but nothing emerges other than another low moan.

And then Sherlock is there, bending over him, the light from a fast-burning match making his eyes glitter in an odd, otherworldly manner as he stares down at John.

"John? Are you alright?"

The match burns down, and the detective's face fades into darkness once more.

John feels his lips tilting up into a faint smile in the darkness. _Oh yes, our discussion is quite decidedly not over, Sherlock Holmes_ , he thinks to himself. And then he closes his eyes and feels the world slipping away.


	10. Chapter 10

"I dunno, it just doesn't make _sense_."

John stops in his contemplation of the medical file and looks up at Greg Lestrade, enquiringly.

The DI is currently propped up on a pile of pillows on his hospital bed in, of all places, Barts. Much to John's surprise, he's been relocated to a fairly plush private room. He supposes that New Scotland Yard's private health insurance has to be good for something, although he didn't realise that Greg's employers would run to _this_.

It's just as well, frankly, because Greg is likely to be here for a while, judging by the nature of his injuries. In fact, he's extremely lucky to _be_ here. John almost wishes his friend hadn't given him permission to take a look at his medical records, because he's not sure he really wanted to know all the details.

Moran's ordered hit-and-run was very clearly intended to kill, and it's a miracle that it didn't. Greg will be out of action for weeks, recovering from a badly broken leg and an operation for severe internal injuries, which involved the removal of his spleen. John wonders if the DI really understands the seriousness of that procedure – and its consequences. He will have to be very careful to avoid infections for the rest of his life, and it may be that he will never return to active policing. John can't bear to think of the consequences if Lestrade is forced to retire from his job. Even if the Yard _does_ keep him on, John can't imagine how the DI will cope in a desk-only position.

He's more than a little concerned about Greg's state of mind, because although the DI is pale and slightly fragile-looking, he's also frighteningly chipper – more so than can be explained by his drugs. Of course, it may be because he's finally made a decision about his barely-alive marriage. John doesn't have to be the world's only consulting detective to deduce that Greg's wife hasn't bothered to visit him – apart from a card from the Yarders and a small bouquet of flowers from Sally, there's no sign that he has received a single visitor. John is just glad that he thought to visit him prior to his own discharge, and he makes a mental note to come back as soon as possible with something – some grapes and a few books, perhaps.

He winces as he shifts a little in his chair. He's being packed off home after a 48 hour stay, which was only extended to that degree because of concerns over a potential head injury and the fact that he lives alone. In reality, he's got off fairly lightly despite two separate assaults and a fall from a two-story building. He has extensive bruising to his neck and head, a couple of cracked ribs and a fractured wrist. It could have been very much worse.

Lestrade is frowning over his copy of the report of Sebastian Moran's death, which was brought in by Sally – John assumes it's a vague attempt on her part to distract the DI from his injuries. In that sense, she's been very clever, as only a fool wouldn't realise that there are serious holes in the investigation. In fact, that might be the reason why Sally has chosen to involve Greg.

"What's the problem?" he asks, tentatively.

Greg gives him a look of disbelief. "'What _isn't_ the problem' would be a better question. Or perhaps you should ask: what _does_ make sense in this pile of –." He breaks off, gesturing at the report contemptuously.

John squirms uncomfortably, then wishes he hadn't as his cracked and heavily strapped ribs make a feeble protest.

He's had to be very careful so far, as he's not entirely clear what the police actually discovered when they arrived at the scene.

He hadn't regained consciousness until he was being stretchered into the ambulance. There hadn't been any sign of Sherlock or Mycroft's men, and he didn't know whether Mycroft had ordered a clean-up before the emergency services were called. He had gathered that he'd been found lying on the ground near the body of Sebastian Moran. He'd had to feign amnesia until he'd sorted out his scrambled thoughts and worked out exactly what to say.

Once patched and plastered up, he'd had to face an irate Sally, who had made it clear that she was less than happy about the way he'd slipped away from the crime scene without letting anyone know where he was going. He'd had to endure a lecture on the fact that she'd expected him of all people to show a little common sense. He'd stood it with good grace, recognising the concern that lay behind the rant.

He'd had some difficulty giving his statement. In the end, he'd admitted that he had recognised Sebastian Moran and had followed him. He'd had to pretend that he had suspected Moran but didn't want to involve the police until he was sure; he could hardly admit that he'd hoped Moran was working with Sherlock. He'd reported that Moran had overpowered him in the house, that he had managed to slip his bindings and that Moran had chased him to that roof top, where they had fought and fallen. He denied any knowledge of the knife that had fatally stabbed the colonel.

He hadn't mentioned Sherlock's involvement. It had been obvious from their conversation on the roof that the consulting detective would have to remain officially dead for a little longer. It was lucky that when he had come round and realised that his friend wasn't there in the ambulance, he'd had the sense to keep quiet.

The strange thing is that he no longer has any doubts about his importance to Sherlock. Before the detective walked into that house just forty-eight hours ago, he'd wondered whether his loyalty and friendship meant anything at all to the consulting detective. Until that moment, if Sherlock had abandoned him on the ground with potentially serious injuries, he'd have taken it as further proof of the detective's indifference. But now, he just _knows_ the reason why Sherlock had had to leave him – and not just on this occasion.

Finally, he understands _why_. And his mind is calmer than it has been for more than three years.

The other person he hadn't mentioned to Sally was Bill Murray, and he's not entirely sure why.

He shouldn't feel any loyalty to a man who had essentially left him to die. When he'd had a bit of time to himself, to reflect on the entire day, he'd felt deeply hurt – betrayed by the one man that he'd always thought he could count on. And yet…he owes Bill. He owes the man who risked his own life to save him back in Afghanistan, so maybe this is payback. And Bill had been terrified of Sebastian. Would John have done what his friend did if Sebastian had threatened someone he loved – Harry perhaps? Possibly not, but then John doesn't have children, and he can't imagine how awful it must be for a parent to fear for the safety of his or her child.

He hopes that he never sees or hears from Bill Murray again. It'll take a long time to forget how he felt when Bill had walked out of that room, leaving him to his fate. But a part of him genuinely hopes that his old friend will take the opportunity of Sebastian Moran's death to leave his past behind him and move on with his family. Nothing could _possibly_ be served by implicating him in John's near-murder.

His biggest worry is that Bill might have been involved in the murders, but he doesn't think it likely. Moran was probably careful to keep 'his' men ignorant of activities that didn't immediately concern them. He cannot possibly imagine what Moran could have said to Bill to compel him to hit his old friend over the head and tie him up…but at least Bill _tried_ to give him a way out with the grief knot. That's of some minor comfort.

He blinks and refocuses his attention on Greg. The DI has sighed and picked up the report again.

"For Chrissake! The guy is found with a knife slipped in under his ribs and they think it's an accident. Says here they think he had the knife hidden in his inside pocket, but if that's true then there's no way in _hell_ it would've got him at _that_ angle. I may not be the brightest copper in the world, but even _I_ can see that." He looks up at John, frowning. "You sure you didn't see any knife during your fight?"

"No," John replies, his gut churning uncomfortably. "Just the gun, like I told Sally."

"Yeah…" Lestrade frowns at the report. "And there was no one else there? Not even one of his men? See – it looks to me like there was a third party there. Someone who stuck the knife in and tried to make it look like an accident."

"How do you know it wasn't me?" asks John, with some curiosity.

Greg waves his hand over the report. "Nah, it says here that you landed several yards away from him. I guess you don't remember anything after falling, since you were knocked out? Well, they think the two of you fell separately, and there's no way you would've been able to crawl over and stab him after you fell – not with that arm."

"Where…where was I found? I can't remember a thing before waking up in the ambulance," John lies, smoothly. It's scary just how easy it's become – and he prays that Greg will forgive him if he ever finds out the truth.

"You not seen it yet?" Greg tosses the paper towards him. "You were on the grass – they think that's why you got off so lightly. You were lying on your front with your arm twisted beneath you. He was on the patio with that knife wound…although it wasn't the only factor. He also had severe head injuries and a broken neck, so it's not totally clear which one actually finished him off."

John peruses the report. Apparently, the alarm had been raised by an old tramp with a long beard, who had gone up to a couple of patrolling PCs and told them that two men had fallen from the roof of his squat. By the time John and Moran had been found and they had called for back-up, the homeless man had disappeared and couldn't be traced.

He hands it back, thoughtfully. He has two options now. Either he continues to keep quiet about Sherlock…or he tells Greg the truth.

Yes, it would be a betrayal of Sherlock's confidence but, after all, this is _Greg_. The DI is like a dog with a bone when there's something a bit odd in an investigation – it's that stubborn streak more than anything else that has got him to the top of his profession. He's a plodder – he lacks obvious brilliance, but he will worry away at a conundrum until the answer is revealed. That's why he and Sherlock worked so well together - few Met officers would have had the tenacity and patience to allow the consulting detective to get away with so much in pursuit of an answer.

The point _is_ Greg won't let this go. He'll worry about it when he needs to focus on getting better, and he'll hassle Sally to keep looking into Moran's death, which is the last thing they need.

If Greg knows the full story, he'll keep quiet for Sherlock's sake. On the down side, he's likely to be pretty shocked and hurt, and John doesn't want to compromise his recovery. He can see that the DI is putting on a brave face, but the latest observations on his chart indicate that he's still quite weak.

But, on the other hand, once he's got used to the idea, surely it'll be a weight of the DI's mind? And he so clearly needs some good news for once…

John is just opening his mouth to speak when there's an all-to-familiar voice at the door.

"Ah, _there_ you are, John."

Both men turn to see Mycroft entering the door in his usual unruffled manner. He's clutching a box of doughnuts bought from a bakery near New Scotland Yard that Greg is an enthusiastic patron of. John's nose twitches with interest at the fresh baked smell.

"Please forgive the intrusion, Inspector. I was looking for John, and I thought he might be paying you a visit." Mycroft gives Greg a kindly smile and then glances at the box with a feigned air of surprise. "Oh, I had forgotten. Someone very kindly gave me these, but sadly I have already had a very good tea. I'm sure you won't mind taking them off my hands."

He waves the box in Greg's general direction and the DI brightens up, putting his hand out, but John neatly intercepts the doughnuts.

"Not at the moment, mate. Your constitution's not really up to it."

Greg subsides in disappointment and Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "No? Well, that _is_ a shame." He looks around the room with an air of satisfaction. "I do hope your new environment is to your liking, Inspector. It was, of course, the least I could do in the circumstances…as it appears your accident was arranged by one of my brother's adversaries."

John looks around in sudden shocked realisation and then narrows his eyes at Mycroft, as Greg mutters his embarrassed thanks. _Just what is the sneaky sod up to now?_

Mycroft gives him a bland look. "I suppose you are discussing what happened to Sebastian Moran the other night. It must have been a terrible shock for you, John, to discover that your old comrade was behind so many murders – and all to gain your attention."

John tenses as something occurs to him. "Did you _know_?"

He's treated to the unusual sight of a Holmes brother looking genuinely taken aback. "Good heavens, _no_. If I _had_ known, I would hardly have allowed you to walk into that situation." He hesitates a little. "I may have…had some suspicion that you were remembering someone from your past, and that it was likely to be a military figure, but I certainly did not know the individual by name."

"So what do you make of _this_ , then?" Greg taps the report on his lap. "Since you seem to know pretty much everything that goes on around here."

Mycroft regards him steadily for a moment, and then smiles. "It occurs to me, Inspector – may I call you Greg? – that you may require somewhere to stay following your release from hospital. I believe I am right in assuming that you will not be welcome at your current abode?"

John grits his teeth. He can see where Mycroft is heading with this, but he can't help thinking that the man is overplaying his hand. Surely the DI won't fall for it…

Greg glares at Mycroft. "I can't see how you would know that, Mr Holmes. We've only just decided to separate."

Mycroft gives the DI what John assumes is meant to be a sympathetic look, though it seems a little forced. "I am sorry to hear that, Greg."

"Yeah, well," Greg mutters, apparently not noticing the civil servant's use of his first name. "I'll probably rent a flat somewhere."

"While continuing to pay for your wife? And on sick pay?" asks Mycroft.

Greg shoots him a deeply suspicious look. "What do my living arrangements have to do with _you_ , anyway?"

The bureaucrat inclines his head graciously. "I have…a property in Sussex that would be at your disposal. It is our family home in fact, but I hardly use it these days. As you know, my job requires me to spend most of my time in London, and so the house lies empty most of the time. If you cared to relocate there while you recover, you would be entirely uninterrupted, apart from my staff who would be happy to cook for you and so on. If your doctors required it, I would be happy to engage a nurse."

Greg mumbles a little. "I can hardly accept your hospitality, Mr Holmes –."

Mycroft breaks in, with his most charming smile. "Please, do call me Mycroft. I can assure you, Greg, that I have no ulterior motive. It would merely be a chance for you to…regroup, shall we say? Only until you are fully recovered and have made alternative living arrangements."

"Well, I don't know..." Greg gives John a questioning look.

John can see he's tempted. He needs to get away from the stressful situation with his wife, and a country house with plenty of rest and good food would be perfect for him. And then, of course, a temporary relocation out of London would take his mind off certain other matters…

He keeps his face perfectly straight as he responds to the DI's unspoken question. "I think it's a good idea, Greg. You are going to need a bit of time to get over this surgery. Besides, I doubt you'll get an opportunity to say 'no'. I suspect Mycroft will just keep pressing his invitation until you give in."

He glares at Mycroft as he adds the last comment, but the man just gives him an irritatingly smug smile.

"Well, I suppose… It's very good of you, Mr Holmes."

Mycroft gives him a polite nod. "Not at all, Greg – and do please call me Mycroft. I'm only too happy to help out. As I say, I do feel some responsibility for the situation you are in."

He throws the report a dismissive look, almost as if it had quite slipped his mind. "Oh, as for the case, I'm sure Sergeant Donovan is perfectly qualified to deal with it, so I should leave it to her, if I were you. I will of course extend to her any assistance she requests...but, as John has not regained his full memory of the event, I suspect we may never know the exact circumstances within which Colonel Moran met his death…and perhaps we should leave it at that."

Greg opens his mouth to protest, but the 'British government' beats him to it.

After all," Mycroft smiles at John, "I think we are _all_ simply very glad that John has emerged relatively lightly from his encounter with a man who appears to have held a somewhat excessive grudge for many years. It seems to _me_ , Greg, that Colonel Moran's death has had the advantage of sparing our good friend here the trauma of having to appear as a witness at a lengthy trial. I am sure you will agree that John has had _quite enough_ to deal with over the last few days – and indeed the last three years."

"Well…" Greg gives John an uncomfortable look and moves the report to one side.

And, just like that, Mycroft has won.

John notes his tired eyes and the slightly tense set of his jaw, and privately wonders how many more battles he will be able to win. When _he_ finally retires from medicine and moves to a quieter life in the country (if he lives that long), will Mycroft Holmes still be at the heart of government, making his private deals behind the scenes and having to clean up the chaos left behind by his wayward younger brother? Again, assuming that Sherlock lives that long…

And talking of Sherlock…

Mycroft seems to read his mind as always. He bestows another friendly smile on Greg. "Would you please excuse us? There is a rather urgent matter that I need to discuss with John."

He turns away from Greg and throws John a meaningful look as he leaves the room.

Greg is looking a little bewildered. "Did I just accept an invitation for a prolonged stay at the Holmes' family estate?"

John can't stop his grin; the DI looks as flummoxed as _he_ always feels after an encounter with Mycroft. It's good to know he's not the only one. "Um, yeah, I think you did."

The DI shifts slightly and winces. "D'you think I can refuse now? What am I getting myself into, John? You don't think he's gonna make me work for him or something, do you?"

"Greg -."

"I mean, it's a bit like the Godfather, innit. He's gonna tell me that he's 'disappointed' in me, and next thing you know, it'll be sleeping with the fishes. You don't know how mad that family is – believe me, Sherlock is just the tip of the iceberg."

"Um, Greg -."

"Or…oh, shit." Greg's eyes widen in horror. "This isn't some seriously dodgy attempt at a chat-up line, is it? I mean, I know I'm not much to look at, but that bloke's a serious weirdo - do you think he's got a handcuff fetish? He does _know_ I'm straight, doesn't he? Don't even know if he's gay or into sheep shagging or whatever, but -."

"GREG!"

The DI subsides at John's desperate shout.

John has to suppress a giggle at the thought of _Mycroft_ trying to chat someone up. "Look, Greg, I think you'll be OK. I'll be honest with you, it's going to take you a while to get over this operation, and you'll get out of hospital quicker if they're happy that you've got someone to look after you. I'm sure Mycroft will provide a nurse. You really can't stay in some cheap flat by yourself."

As Greg starts to object, he continues quickly, "No, really, I'm sure it'll be fine. Just try to take him at face value. He's not so bad really - I'm sure he means well," he adds, crossing his fingers behind his back. _And I suspect I know who put him up to it too_.

"Yeah, well, you'd better come and visit me there," Greg mutters. "Just in case I need rescuing."

John grins. "I _certainly_ will." The truth is, he's dying to visit the place where Sherlock and Mycroft grew up, so he can better visualise a curly-haired skinny oddball of a boy and his podgy pompous teenage brother. There might even be family photographs, if he's lucky - useful ammunition for teasing and possible blackmail.

"Anyway," he stands up. "I'd better go. I'll come back tomorrow."

"Yeah, thanks John." Greg shakes his uninjured left hand.

As he leaves the room, John notes with some satisfaction that the report is lying undisturbed on Greg's bedside table. The DI has shifted to lie back, with his hands behind his head, looking thoughtful.

Mycroft is standing outside, frowning at a message on his smartphone. "Ah, John, there you are."

" _He_ put you up to this, didn't he?"

The older Holmes brother gives him a sharp look. "You can hardly expect me to answer that _here_. However, I can assure you that I do not wish any harm to come to Inspector Lestrade."

"And I hope it _doesn't_." John glares back. "I _mean_ it, Mycroft. _Don't_ try to involve Greg in any of your Machiavellian schemes. He's a good man."

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. "I am quite sure that he _is_. No doubt he will make suitable alternative living arrangements once he has made a full recovery. And, in the meantime, I'm sure that we would not wish him to involve himself in certain…matters."

John lowers his voice. "You realise that he may be forced into early retirement? With injuries like his –."

Mycroft cuts across him. "You do not know that, John."

John bristles. "I _am_ a doctor."

The smooth bureaucrat looks back at him, evenly. "I repeat – _you do not know that_. It is my belief that Scotland Yard will be able to make arrangements."

There's an air of finality in his voice, and John suspects that Greg won't have to worry about his job after all.

He steps closer, lowering his voice further. "When will he be coming home?" They both know he is not talking about Lestrade.

Mycroft's gaze softens. "I cannot tell you for certain, John. Certain, fairly dramatic, events are taking place in specific locations at this very moment. Until a certain international operation has been completed, it would be unsafe for our friend's survival to be revealed. I can only tell you that he is in a safe location."

"And…he's alright, is he?"

"He is well," Mycroft assures him.

John smiles, his eyes going to the window. Out there- just out there, three years ago, he stood on the ground and watched a man fall. He has a strange temptation to climb the steps up onto the roof; to see what Sherlock must have seen on that day. "I wonder…will I ever learn what happened?"

Mycroft is silent for a moment. "I cannot tell you that. I do not have the full details myself. I think…it is my suspicion that he _will_ tell you…one day. Perhaps not at first, perhaps not for many years. But he _will_ tell you."

John eyes him, wryly. "What makes you so sure? You Holmes' brothers – I don't think I'll ever _get_ you, not really. For a while, I thought I understood Sherlock, but I _didn't_ – did I? If I _had_ understood him, I'd have known what he was doing – why he sent me away that day. Mind you, I probably came closer to understanding him than anyone else… But _you_ …will I ever understand you?"

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "Would you _wish_ to? Tell me, John, if you had a chance to find out what my role involves on a daily basis – the orders I have to give, the decisions I have to make – would you take that opportunity? And, if you _did_ and you learnt something that you really did not wish to know, would you be able to 'delete' it, much as my brother can?"

John laughs. "I'm not sure that I _do_ want to know any of that… but what I _really_ meant was understanding _you_ rather than what you do. Maybe I'm curious about who Mycroft Holmes _is_. I mean things like what you like, what you don't like, what your real feelings towards Sherlock are. How you unwind from work. How you operate – and what motivates you to do the work you do."

Mycroft looks genuinely perplexed. "And why would that be of the _remotest_ interest to you, John?"

John tries to trace any sign that Mycroft is putting on a front, but nothing is obvious. It's rather sad that a man who spends his life anticipating the reactions of other people _genuinely_ cannot conceive that anyone might wish to know him as a person – as a friend, even. He sighs, rubbing his forehead. "You know what? That response tells me quite a lot about the way you operate, Mycroft." _And that Greg has absolutely nothing to worry about_ , he adds to himself.

The bureaucrat gives him a sharp look. "When the time is right, there will be a public announcement." His voice is a little colder now; more professional. "I trust I can depend on you to maintain your silence until such time."

John forbears to point out that he's already maintained it for three years. "Will he…will there be…repercussions?" he asks, wincing at the weak words but too afraid to clarify his meaning. It has been on his mind that if Sherlock were to return now, he might face serious charges - perverting the course of justice and extensive hacking into international police and government computers. Even, potentially, murder.

"You may rest assured that his name will be cleared," Mycroft says, calmly. He frowns at his phone again. "And now I must go. I can give you a lift to Baker Street if you wish?"

John shakes himself out of his reverie. "Actually, no thanks, Mycroft. There's someone else I need to see before I leave."

Mycroft gives him another sharp look and then a quick nod. "Ah yes. I rather thought there might be. Well, goodbye John."

"Yeah, bye Mycroft." He gives the other man a firm nod and turns away.

"John?" Mycroft's voice is surprisingly tentative as he turns back. "I hope…you will understand that I had no choice but to keep you in the dark. It was not my desire to –."

" _Please_ , Mycroft." He raises a hand to stop the fumbling apology that Sherlock's brother is attempting to make. "I don't want to discuss it. It's OK – well," he sighs, "actually, it's _not_ OK as such, but it is what it _is_ … Oh, _hell_ , alright then - it's _fine_. It's all fine."

And as he turns away from Mycroft, he realises with some surprise that he actually means it.

* * *

The forensic laboratory is quiet when he arrives, but she's still there, bent over some paperwork at her desk with her back to him. He enters the room quietly, not wishing to disturb her.

He stops just inside the door, looking around. He hasn't been here since before The Fall. It seems astonishing to him that it was only four and a half years ago that he came through this door and saw that tall, sharply-dressed man for the first time, hunched over an experiment…right over _there._

He didn't know _then_ that it would be one of the defining moments of his life…that a chance encounter with an old medical school friend and a shared desire to find a flatmate would lead to a life full of adventures and excitement and danger and fun and happiness and fear and pain and all-consuming grief.

 _And I would do it all again_ , he reflects, as he stands there. _I wouldn't change a thing_. _For that would mean changing Sherlock._

"John!" Molly jumps to her feet, knocking her chair over. She looks flushed and a little confused. "I'm _so_ sorry, I didn't know you were there."

He raises his good hand, smiling. "It's OK. I didn't like to interrupt you."

She gives him an uncertain laugh. "I keep meaning to get in touch. I haven't forgotten you, honestly, it's just that it's been so busy here, we're always short-staffed these days, and you know, it's amazing how time flies -."

" _Molly_ ," he interrupts her. "It's OK, Molly. I _know_. I've seen him."

She stops her nervous gabbling and stares at him for a moment. "Oh, God, John, I am _so_ sorry. I wanted to tell you, I really did, but I'd promised him…" She walks towards him. "You have no idea how hard it's been, knowing _all this time_ , never being able to tell anyone…"

"I know, Molly. Believe me, I _do_ know."

"You… _knew_ …all the time?" Her eyes search his, seeking out the confirmation in his eyes.

As he nods and holds out his uninjured arm, her composure finally deserts her…

And plain, mouse-like little Molly Hooper - forensic pathologist, Sherlock's loyal friend, the one who didn't 'count' - clutches at his jacket, buries her face in his shoulder and sobs as if her heart will break.

* * *

The weeks go by. And still, he waits.

Mrs Hudson fusses over him when he gets home. "Now then, John dear, I don't know _what_ you've been up to, but no more adventures for a while, please. You just sit there and let me get you some tea. Only just this once, of course – I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper."

She's still assuring him of that fact a week later while serving up delicious casseroles and soups and plates of biscuits and cakes, and while John has enjoyed all the fuss, he's _really_ looking forward to getting back to work…preferably before his clothes get too tight.

Sarah smiles when he comes into the surgery. "I'm not sure I even _want_ to know what you've been up to. I'm just damn glad you're back with us."

He smiles back. "Thanks, Sarah, you've been great. I really don't deserve you."

She flashes him a quick, knowing look. "I know it's not been easy over the last few years, but I hope things will calm down for you now?"

He hesitates. "I don't know that I can guarantee that, but I'll do my best."

She sighs, but her eyes sparkle with her usual good humour. "To be honest, I didn't think you would. It was just a hope, really… Actually, John, I wanted to talk about your hours. I know you wanted to reduce them for a while, but is there any chance I could convince you to go full time again?" She gives him a hopeful look. "Only Brett's decided to go back to Australia, which means we're a doctor down again, and you know how much the old dears love you; they're always going on about Dr Watson…"

And so he agrees to go back to his old job.

* * *

And still, he waits.

He stands in front of another freshly dug grave, with a bunch of yellow roses in his hand. Mycroft stands a short distance away, silent and watchful.

The gravestone is rather beautiful. Understated, no ostentation about it and the location is lovely, right on the edge of the cemetery. John looks up through the branches waving gently in the summer breeze to the blue sky beyond, and savours the peace.

The stone contains just her name: Rebecca Ann Reynolds, and her dates of birth and death. And finally the words:

 _This is_ _moral perfection_ _: to_ _live each day_ _as though it were the last; to be tranquil, sincere, yet not indifferent to one's fate_.

He's never heard the words before and he doesn't think that they're from the bible. They're not words he would necessarily have thought of in connection with the young homeless woman, and yet… in some strange way, they seem _right_. He wonders who chose them – Mycroft? Sherlock, perhaps, since he knew her better?

He carefully places the roses on the earth in front of her gravestone and steps back again. Mycroft puts his hand on John's shoulder for a moment before turning to walk away quietly.

* * *

June gives way to July…and July to August… And still, he waits.

"Yeah, it's not so bad here, actually," Lestrade admits, taking his ease in an armchair in the Holmes' manor's well-appointed library. He's looking years younger; the lines of strain around his eyes have eased and he's tanned and relaxed from hours spent out of doors that haven't involved gory crime scenes.

John smiles and gulps his tea. He's enjoyed his visit. Yes, there _is_ a brook to paddle in, just as he suspected, and woods to get lost in, and a library full of fascinating old books, and a dusty old attic with boxes full to the brim with curious objects. There's even a laboratory, which quite obviously hasn't been used for years.

And, yes, there _have_ been photographs of a skinny little oddball of a boy with wild, black curls. One shows him at about age five, up to his knees in that brook, grinning at the camera. In another, he's a sulky eight-year-old dressed in a deeply embarrassing sailor's suit at a wedding – an image that John just _has_ to get a copy of, for blackmail purposes if nothing else. And there's also a photograph of the two brothers. Sherlock looks to be about ten and is standing in front of a gangly teenage Mycroft, who has his hands on his brother's shoulders. Both boys look rather solemn, but the big surprise to John is that Sherlock is leaning into his brother in a touchingly trusting manner.

John returns this photograph to the shelf, thoughtfully. One of these days, when Sherlock returns, he'll ask him about his relationship with Mycroft – and why it changed so dramatically.

He leaves the manor, pleased to see Lestrade looking much happier than he has in all the time John has known the DI. His divorce proceedings are underway and he's found a flat to move into when he's well enough to return to work.

John takes a deep breath of fresh Sussex air and takes a last wistful look at the beauty and tranquillity around him, before returning to the pollution and grime of London...and promises himself that one day – _one day_ – he'll come back.

* * *

Summer turns into autumn. And still, he waits.

It's a rainy Tuesday night in late October, and John has just got in from work when the announcement comes. He's just turned on the kettle and has switched on the TV to flick through the channels while he waits for it to boil. He turns to BBC News24… and there it is.

Along the bottom of the screen, the words: Sherlock Holmes Alive - Detective's Name is Cleared – Rich Brook Never Existed – Statement Expected Shortly.

He sinks into his chair and stares at the TV, his tea forgotten.

There's a statement given by some self-important civil servant that he's never heard of before. Mr Holmes has been working undercover for three years…vital government work…faked suicide necessary…master criminal James Moriarty dead…his empire dismantled…the Queen and the Prime Minister grateful to Mr Holmes for his role in ensuring the safety and security of the nation…MBE to be awarded…

And a photograph of Sherlock – his hair properly cut and restored to its usual colour, wearing a dark designer suit with no tie, the collar of his silk shirt undone, looking every inch the heroic, broodingly attractive international spy. Daniel Craig had better take note.

* * *

And still, he waits.

"Can you bloody well _believe_ it?"

Greg Lestrade is now back at work, currently gulping down his herbal tea with a wince at the taste. John grimaces in empathy. It's Sally Donovan's latest attempt to improve her former boss's health – no more doughnuts or late-night takeaways from dodgy vans, and _definitely_ no more strong coffee. Greg might be looking leaner, but he's also looking meaner, particularly when John smirks and sips the expresso that he made sure he brought with him.

Actually, despite the glare being directed at him and the occasional muttered comment about 'rabbit food', John suspects that the DI doesn't actually mind Sally fussing around him… after all, he's stuck to the diet despite temptations. At first, it looked as if Sally had been trying to charm her way back into Greg's team, but John is starting to suspect that she has other motives in mind. He's spotted them leaving work together and Sally looked much happier on that occasion than she used to. John wonders with some amusement what Anderson makes of this latest development – it might just be worth showing up at a crime scene to find out.

"Typical of bloody Sherlock, even dead, he doesn't stay buried," Greg mutters. "What I want to know is how the _hell_ he did it."

 _You and me both_ , John thinks, but he says nothing, and Greg gives him a suspicious look.

"You sure you don't know?"

John is grateful to be able to look the DI in the eye and answer, perfectly honestly, that he has absolutely no idea.

Greg sighs heavily. "Yeah, well, when you catch up with him, you just send him in my direction. He owes me an explanation." He sounds grumpy, but John can detect the hurt beneath the bluster. "I mean, he could've told us, couldn't he – you and me? He could've found a way. Makes you wonder if he even gives a shit about our feelings, doesn't it?"

John sobers at these words. Sherlock's going to face a fair few challenges when he gets back. It won't be that easy for him – the detective has never found it easy to discuss emotional matters, but he's going to have to try, if he wants Greg Lestrade to ever speak to him again.

Will he even want to _try_? In John's experience, Sherlock will ignore any personal conflict until it goes away - or, more usually, until John gives up being angry with him. He has a similar relationship with Lestrade. Will the detective just sweep back into 221B as if he's never been away? Will he just turn up at a crime scene and dare Greg to order him to leave? Or will he have actually _learnt_ anything about human relationships during his time away?

John has a sudden vision of Sherlock striding into the flat, lying back on the sofa and ordering John to hand over his mobile or laptop, in his usual peremptory manner… and he feels an uneasy chill going down his spine.

* * *

And still, he waits.

"Oh, John, isn't it wonderful!" Mrs Hudson cries, as she hurries up the stairs as fast as her hip will let her. She's returned early from a stay with her sister after hearing the news.

John smiles and returns her enthusiastic hug.

"I always knew he couldn't be dead; that's why I couldn't bring myself to clear all his things away. And of course you never believed it either – of course you didn't! To think – _my_ Sherlock, working undercover as a _government spy_ – how exciting! Just like James Bond – but much more handsome, of course. And his brother _knew all along_. And that's why he kept paying Sherlock's rent. Well, I must go and see Mrs Turner – she'll be so glad to hear that he's coming back -."

John sighs as she bustles out. Dear, ever loyal, Mrs H., the closest Sherlock has ever had to a _real_ mother. Will everyone be able to welcome Sherlock back with such generous, open arms?

It can't be denied that, for _some_ people, Sherlock's absence has been an advantage.

* * *

And still, he waits.

"So how do _you_ feel about it?" Sarah asks him over their lunchtime sandwich in the staff room. "After all, he fooled you too – it must be difficult to accept that?"

John smiles at her over his mug of tea.

Sarah narrows her eyes at him. "You _knew_ … didn't you? All this time… God, John, how did you manage to keep quiet for so long?"

He can't answer that, since he hardly understands it himself.

It feels odd to be able to talk of Sherlock as alive after such a long period of schooling himself to use the past tense in relation to the detective - 'was' instead of 'is' and 'did' instead of 'does'. Even now, when he wakes up in the morning, he has to remind himself that there's no longer any need for subterfuge.

He feels a little redundant. For a start, there's no need to defend his friend against the slurs any more. In fact, everyone – his colleagues, friends, the Yarders, even Sally Donovan – seems hell-bent on assuring him that they never _really_ believed the Kitty Riley story; that Sherlock was clearly real; that it will be wonderful to have him back.

There's no longer the compulsion to go out late at night to decorate the streets. Ironically, it's become something of a cult. There's some group on Tumblr – a bunch of fans who have declared that they 'always' believed he was real – who have apparently been going out painting the message wherever there's a free wall. In fact, it's become something of a public nuisance. John can't help thinking, rather cynically, that there was no visible sign of their devotion to Sherlock Holmes _prior_ to the publication of that rather attractive photograph…and it's interesting to note that the membership appears to be exclusively female. Judging by the photos on their site, they have a propensity for wearing deerstalkers, short skirts and ridiculously tight t-shirts with the legend 'Holmes Babes' printed across them.

The press is becoming a serious nuisance. He hates having to ask favours of Mycroft, but it's becoming impossible to leave Baker Street even just to walk to the shops or the Tube. Every time he steps out of his front door, he's surrounded by journalists shoving microphones in his face and blinding him with camera flashes. The questions are endless: _When did you find out? Did you always know? How did you keep quiet all this time? Do you feel guilty about that? Have you seen him recently? When will you see him again? Will he be coming back to Baker Street?_ Even, much to his surprise, _Are you shagging him?_

And so on. In the end, he gives up trying to be independent and sinks with gratitude into the back seat of the black limo that is invariably waiting for him at the kerb.

* * *

And still, he waits.

"Well, I'm just glad it's over," exclaims Molly over a Friday night pint that has become a regular event for them. "Not that there's any attention focused on _me_ , of course. It must be hard for _you_ , John – all those papers contacting you, trying to get an interview. Trying to find out how much you knew. Even your blog – my God, some of the _comments_. You won't talk to any of the papers, will you?"

There's a note of anxiety in her voice. As the pathologist who carried out the post-mortem and declared Sherlock Holmes to be dead, she's in an awkward position. Mycroft has, of course, smoothed things over with her employers, explaining that she has been 'assisting the government' with Sherlock's undercover operation. Despite that, she could do without any media attention.

John gives her a reassuring smile and sips his pint, frowning a little. Despite Molly's words, he can't help wondering whether it really _is_ over - if it'll _ever_ be over. After all, there'll always be another James Moriarty, another Sebastian Moran. Sherlock will be off again, getting himself into danger, disappearing with warning. And for how much longer will John want to carry on running after him?

* * *

And still, he waits.

It's a freezing cold November evening and, somehow, the central heating doesn't appear to be enough to counter the chill in the air. John crouches in front of the fireplace, trying to coax the small blaze into greater life with some screwed up pieces of newspaper. Mrs Hudson is at the bingo, and the flat is silent but for the sound of crackling flames.

It's been two weeks since Sherlock's 'return', but John has had no contact with him. He hasn't texted, phoned or even written. There was one brief television interview a week ago, which had obviously been organised by Mycroft, in which a smartly-dressed Sherlock succeeded in looking simultaneously heroic and bored to death, and answered every carefully-managed question in a manner that was just short of insulting.

Since then, the media has gone quiet. Not only are there no further reports on Sherlock, but John's phone and blog page have gone blessedly quiet. The gaggle of photographers outside 221B, lurking there day and night in the hope of catching the touching reunion between the detective and his blogger, have finally given up. After the initial flurry of interest, it's as if Sherlock's return has never happened.

The flames are higher now. John holds his hands up to the warmth and looks around the room. 221B Baker Street is dimly-lit and cosy in the firelight. The skull has been polished up to a high gleam, and the teetering piles of paper – Sherlock's research notes – have been carefully stacked on the dining room table. The armchairs – his and Sherlock's – have been pulled up close to the fire.

His eyes go to the coffee table. There's a freshly-made pot of tea there and two mugs, two plates and some cutlery, along with a sealed bag of takeaway Chinese food – John's nose twitches at the hot, enticing aroma.

The door to the flat is propped open and John is listening intently, even as he looks around at his home with some satisfaction.

 _His_ home. Funny that when he was younger, he'd always assumed that he'd be married with a couple of kids by the age of forty, living somewhere in the suburbs, with his own practice, or maybe working as a surgeon. Somehow, whenever he visualised _home_ , he didn't expect it to be an old-fashioned dark flat in central London, with dodgy heating, shabby armchairs, assorted cushions, scattered books and papers and science equipment covering every possible surface, shabby wallpaper with a smiley face picked out in bullet holes, a dagger in the wall and a skull on the mantelpiece. He hadn't anticipated _this_ …but then he hadn't anticipated Sherlock. And this _is_ his home – _their_ home. It might not always be home; maybe he'll marry one day, maybe he'll finally retire to that little house he can picture in the fresh air of the Sussex countryside… but for _now_ , it's fine.

It's _all_ fine.

At last he hears the sound he had been waiting for. Footsteps outside Baker Street and the sound of a key turning in the lock.

John smiles as he takes the steps, two at a time, bad leg forgotten. He's downstairs quick enough to open the door.

Sherlock looks up, his eyes glittering in the pale street lights, like a cat's.

John grins. "Well, you took bloody long enough to get home."

**The End**


End file.
